


we'll get there fast and then we'll take it slow

by starkhasheart



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cruise Ships, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Making Love, Marriage Proposal, More tags to be added, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sharing a Bed, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Vacation, this is so tender i'll cry right now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-01 02:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21338719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkhasheart/pseuds/starkhasheart
Summary: Crowley blinks behind his shades. “Are you suggesting—”“We pretend we’re romantically involved? Perhaps I am.” The angel gives Crowley a guilty smile, cheeks still dusted rosy pink. “It shouldn’t be that hard—we’ve known each other for six millennia, give or take.”Crowley wins tickets for an all-expenses paid cruise for two, and the obvious choice for his plus-one is none other than Aziraphale. They immediately realize upon boarding the ship that this cruise is meant for couples of the romantic variety, and in a panic, they decide to fake a relationship for fear of scrutiny. Romantic excursions and mutual pining ensues.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 238
Kudos: 714
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me: i want to write an azcrow fake relationship fic but i have no pretenses as to why they're in a fake relationship  
my friend on twitter: So I've Had This Idea
> 
> anyway i have this whole fic planned out but it's not written so i hope i'll be able to update it i've been wanting to write a fake relationship fic for so long. i was also hesitant to add my ocs but they're lesbians and i needed to do SOMETHING with them before i die
> 
> also i have no idea how cruises work i'm sorry i've never been on one
> 
> title is from kokomo by the beach boys

Out of every invention humanity has thought up, Crowley thinks his favorite is the telephone.

It still boggles his demonic mind that the creation evolved from a simple machine that transmitted vibrations through wires to a device you can wield in the palm of your hand, with which you can call up information on anything with a few taps of your thumbs. He’s not sure which side took credit for the original invention—he honestly thinks it was just human ingenuity—but he did happen to have a small part in conjuring up the gadget’s more…_annoying_ features.

Crowley’s forcibly awakened by the sound of his phone shrieking on his bedside table, and he hisses, scrubbing his hands down his face to coax the sleep out of his eyes before yanking his phone from the table and answering it, not even bothering glancing at the number.

“Yeah?” he grouses, voice thick with sleep. His lip is curled into a snarl.

“_Hello there, sir! I am just calling to inform you_—”

Crowley groans, interrupting the person on the other end before they could even finish their sentence. “What, about my car’s extended warranty? It’s a 1926 Bentley. It doesn’t need one.”

The person on the other end of the line seems genuinely shell-shocked that someone didn’t immediately hang up on them at their prompt. “_Well, no, actually_—”

“Or what, that my insurance has expired? I don’t need insurance.”

“_Well, that is to say_—”

“Or that you’re from HMRC and you’re calling about my back taxes?”

“_If you would just let me get a word in edgewise, sir!_” the person actually snaps, and Crowley can’t help but let his lips curl into a smirk.

“Oh, you’ve actually got a backbone. I appreciate that.” Crowley props himself up on one elbow. “Lay it on me then.”

“_I—er, well—I was just calling to inform you that you’ve won an all-expense paid cruise for two to the Balearic Islands._”

Crowley’s golden eyes narrow into slits. “An all-expense paid cruise to the Balearic Islands,” he deadpans.

“_Well, yes. Quite right_.” The caller clears their throat.

“And how do I know that this isn’t a scam?”

“_I suppose there’s no definite way to know if this is a scam or not, but I assure you that this is very real and you have won a free cruise_.”

“And how exactly did you come across my number?”

“_Well, er, it’s really quite a complicated process, but the system just chooses people at random—in any event, if you are interested then all I need is your name, and we can go from there_.”

Crowley mulls over the offer, filing through the possible outcomes. The caller did say it’s a cruise for two, and we all know who Crowley’s plus one would be—a certain fussy angel who owns a bookshop and doesn’t even sell any books. With the thought of Aziraphale comes Thoughts that Crowley has been dealing with, for, oh, let’s just say around six millennia. A part of him—the rational, sane part—is hesitant at the thought of staying on a boat for Someone knows how long trapped in the middle of a vast ocean with said fussy angel with whom his feelings lie. It’s madness, he tells himself. Absolute madness.

Crowley’s never really been known for being rational and sane, though.

“Anthony. Anthony J. Crowley,” he says after a beat.

The caller seems to perk up exponentially. “_Anthony…alright, I’ve got you down! Although, I will need your full middle name._”

“It’s just a J, really.”

Crowley hops up the perch of steps leading to the bookshop, two cruise tickets in hand, willing the locked door open with a flick of his wrist and locking it tight with the same movement. The bell jingles and he sees Aziraphale huddled at his desk, pouring over another ancient tome that appears in desperate need of repair.

“We’re most definitely closed,” Aziraphale murmurs, not even paying attention to the demon who just miracled himself into the locked bookshop.

“Y’really think that stops me, angel?” Crowley says, and at his voice Aziraphale’s head snaps up, a smile spreading across his lips.

“Crowley,” the angel greets, beaming at him like it’s the first time he’s seen Crowley in centuries. It makes Crowley’s heart do funny things in his chest. “How are you faring?”

“I’d say I’m alright. Got a surprise for you, though.” He’s holding the tickets behind his back.

The angel claps his hands together as he rises from his chair, skirting around his desk before standing before Crowley. “A surprise? I do love surprises…”

“I know,” Crowley says, brandishing the tickets and waving them through the air before letting Aziraphale have a look at them. Aziraphale plucks them from the demon’s hands and reads them, gasping.

“A cruise? Crowley, you shouldn’t have!” Aziraphale exclaims, fluttering his eyelashes up at Crowley.

“Didn’t do anything, angel,” Crowley says, waving a hand. “I just won them by giving some random caller my name.”

“Oh, a telemarketer?” Aziraphale asks, gingerly handing the tickets back to Crowley as if he’s afraid of losing them. “Isn’t it dangerous, giving away personal information?”

Crowley snorts, pushing past the angel to dig through his liquor cabinet. “It’s not even my real name. We don’t _have_ personal information.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully, accepting the glass of scotch Crowley hands him. He gives it a sip before continuing, “I should start giving a thought of what to pack.”

“Guess I’ll pack something too,” Crowley mutters against the rim of the glass. “Keep up appearances and all that.”

“The Balearic Islands,” Aziraphale says. “Spain, if I’m not mistaken? I wonder what we’ll find there.”

“Beaches. I think there’s mountains. Artifacts?” Crowley ponders aloud, finishing his drink almost as fast as he poured it. “I think there’s a palace, too? But we’ll probably waste most of our time on the cruise ship.”

“They’ll have marvelous restaurants, I bet. And entertainment! This is going to be so much fun, Crowley. I’m really glad you picked up that phone call.”

Aziraphale beams at Crowley, and the demon rolls his eyes at the word _fun_. He mutters something, probably about how he was just going to berate the telemarketer until they hung up, but Aziraphale didn’t hear him. The angel is too busy humming, making a mental checklist of what to pack; Crowley can almost see the wheels turning in his head. His blue eyes are shining with more joy than the moment he saw his bookshop built anew from the ashes. It makes Crowley’s heart do stupid things in his chest and he snaps his glass full again, downing it in one gulp before Aziraphale can notice.

He wonders if this is a good idea, being stuck on a cruise ship with Aziraphale for seven days as it crawls across the sea. But, he reminds himself, that they have barely spent a moment apart since Adam essentially told his infernal father to go fuck himself, and since they wriggled their way out of their respective execution attempts from their former employers. Not a day has went by where Crowley wasn’t in the bookshop, dozing away on the couch in the backroom or lurking around, frightening customers into leaving. The only time the demon isn’t with Aziraphale is when he’s at his Mayfair flat berating his plants, and then he’s back at the angel’s side just as quick.

If one would look at Crowley’s situation from an outsider’s perspective, even they would realize that his feelings for Aziraphale have never been strictly platonic. They’ve always ran deeper than the ties of friendship, bleeding into the territory of…well, he refuses to say, but everybody in the West End probably has it figured out.

It’s not like Crowley must be secretive about it just to save face with Hell anymore. And he’s not—when Aziraphale isn’t looking he allows himself to gaze at the angel with all the adoration he can put into it, hoping Aziraphale won’t pick up on it. It’s all he really has. It’s all he’ll ever have. If he has to live with these feelings weighing down in his chest then he’ll grin and bear it, like he always has, for his own sake.

He lost Aziraphale once. He’ll be blessed if it happens again, with him at fault.

A week passes, and the time for the two to depart has finally arrived. Crowley drives his normal speeds to the port where they’ll be boarding the ship, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin. He does slow down a bit when their luggage jostles in the back seat of the Bentley and Aziraphale pleads, “Crowley, my favorite mug is in my suitcase, be a dear and take it a tad slower for me, would you?”

And Crowley does, because he’s trying not to be known for going too fast anymore.

They arrive at the port without a hitch, Crowley slinging himself into a parking spot in a way that shouldn’t be possible for a vintage Bentley to do, but with Crowley at the wheel, any maneuver is possible. Once he and Aziraphale have gotten their suitcases out of the back Crowley makes a small suggestion that something ill falls upon anyone who even _dares_ to look at the car with any intentions other than good.

“At least we managed to find a close parking spot; the line to enter seems long,” Aziraphale remarks, dragging his suitcase as he tags along next to Crowley. The demon reminds himself that his legs are significantly longer than Aziraphale’s and slows down his pace so the angel can keep up.

“I can make it go by quicker,” Crowley says, not even with his usual biting tone. “If you want.”

“Oh, that’s alright, Crowley. Waiting just makes everything better, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale flashes a grin at him and Crowley, despite himself, allows himself a small smile back.

They make it onto the dock and file into the line. The salt-smell of the sea breeze wafts through the air and Crowley takes a deep breath, scanning his surroundings. The cruise ship is rather impressive—he did some research about it online and can hold up to a thousand passengers, and is home to many attractions: restaurants, bars, boutiques, spas—everything Aziraphale could be excited about. There’s even a casino, and Crowley knows he’ll have a lot of fun there, dropping little suggestions into peoples’ heads about how they should treat themselves, it’s only one more dollar, what could it hurt? His lips curl into a mischievous smirk.

“I must say,” Aziraphale murmurs, breaking his train of thought. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this amount of love in one area before in my existence.”

Crowley shrugs, sauntering forward a step or two as the line progresses. “Humans love their vacations. They’re only allotted one a year. I think.”

“Rubbish, that,” Aziraphale says. “Don’t see why they think they have to work themselves to death.”

Crowley files through the cabinet of his memories and recalls crawling through the dirt of Eden and whispering grand promises to anyone who would lend an ear. He remembers the Apple, bright and juicy, just begging to be picked, and white teeth sinking into red flesh.

“Gave ’em free will and look what they do with it,” is all Crowley says in response.

They stand quiet in line for a moment, and Crowley lets his eyes wander again. He examines the other passengers—all rather young, an assortment of genders, but they all seem to be in twosomes. Crowley frowns, memories of his last experience on a boat shimmering back to the surface. He tamps these down and shuts them away to be dealt with at a later date.

He’s also noticed there’s no children in sight, which he finds is a shame, because he gets a kick out of seeing the little agents of chaos running around and driving their exhausted parents up a wall.

“No kids,” he remarks aloud.

“Perhaps it’s an adult-only cruise,” Aziraphale offers as an explanation. He brings a slightly trembling hand to his temple. “There’s so much _love_…”

Crowley pays the angel a glance of concern. “You alright? Can’t you turn it off?”

“I’m fine, and—Crowley, it’s not a light switch, it’s apart of my whole being.” Aziraphale furrows his brow. “It’s even stronger than at Tadfield. I can’t fathom why.”

So Crowley looks around again, and this time, really _looks_. He lets his shaded gaze drag across each individual passenger, noting similarities and differences. Part of him—a really small, dreadful part—wishes that if he kept one thing in the aftermath of his Fall, it would be the ability to sense love. If he had it, he could empathize with Aziraphale at the moment; but, all he can do is see if he can deduce the reason why.

He thinks he has.

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs. “Take a look at everyone around you. And I mean, _really_ look at them. What is one thing they all have in common?”

Instead of arguing, which is what Crowley had been expecting, Aziraphale falls silent and narrows his eyes, scanning the humans in front of them. The two are silent for a moment, only moving with the line.

Suddenly, Aziraphale gasps. “They’re in pairs!” At the realization, he frowns. “What has that got to do with love, though?”

“Look at their _hands_.”

Crowley looks with Aziraphale, taking in every pair whose hands were twined together, and whose hands weren’t, but still sported a band of silver or gold around their ring fingers. The angel’s eyes widen and his head snaps to face Crowley’s.

“Couples,” he says. “They’re all—_couples_.”

“When the telemarketer said a trip for two I didn’t think they meant something like _this_,” Crowley hisses.

“Perhaps not everyone here is together in a romantic sense,” Aziraphale says, voice cracking.

“Can’t you tell the difference between romantic and platonic love?”

“Well, yes—oh.”

“_Oh?_ What’s _oh_ supposed to mean?”

“I don’t think you’re going to like the answer to that,” Aziraphale squeaks.

“Can y’all, like, _move_ already?”

In the midst of their bickering the line has moved up a significant way ahead, the two ethereal and occult beings holding it up. Aziraphale grips Crowley’s arm and yanks him forward before he can spit a scathing remark at whoever told them off. Once they’re moved forward Aziraphale turns around to apologize, but is cut off before he can get a word in.

“Terribly sorry about her, she’s just cranky because we had to wake up early this morning,” says one of the two young ladies filed behind them in the line. She’s short and broad, and has dark skin that’s glowing under the blazing sun, thick, coarse hair pulled tightly into buns atop her head, and she’s sporting a bright smile that reaches even darker eyes. Crowley notes she’s dressed almost as peculiarly as Aziraphale always is.

“I’m not _cranky_ because I had to get up early, I’m _cranky_ because I hate standing in line,” says the other woman gruffly, and Crowley immediately knows that if he existed in any other circumstances the two would probably be acquaintances. She’s thin and lanky, with tanned skin, locks of sandy blonde hair waving in the sea breeze, and she’s dressed in a low-cut shirt and flannel, hands shoved into the pockets of ripped jeans tight enough to rival Crowley’s. The thing that’s taking Crowley aback the most, is that her eyes are a bright shade of amber, and it feels like her gaze is slicing through him with ferocity.

“Oh, we were the ones holding up the line,” Aziraphale says, waving his hands dismissively. “Our fault entirely.”

“I don’t think so,” says the dark-haired one, with a smile. Her accent isn’t exactly British but the way she speaks is still too prim and proper to be anything else. “Sometimes you just get lost in conversation with someone you love. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The part of Crowley’s brain responsible for forming coherent thoughts and putting them into sentences seems to have went offline, so all he can really do is stammer, eyes flying from the two girls to Aziraphale. He hopes the angel can offer up a response to this that can detract any mention of _love_ from the situation, but the demon is sorely disappointed.

“Oh, yes, that’s definitely true.” Aziraphale offers a sheepish smile. “Oh, it seems we’re almost on board…”

“That we are.” The dark-haired girl turns to smile at her counterpart. “Victoria, be a dear and get the luggage, would you? I’ll check us in.”

The one named Victoria’s countenance immediately changes upon the request, and she smiles down at her with the type of reverence Crowley saves for when Aziraphale isn’t looking.

“Sure thing, doll,” Victoria says, accent uncannily American southern. She hoists a very heavy-looking tote bag over her shoulders before grabbing two suitcases by the handles. “Y’got the tickets, Bea?”

“Yes, love.” The one named Bea flashes the tickets and a bright smile. “Oh, but you two are ahead of us, so you’ll get to check in first.”

Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s hand to fold the tickets into his palm and drops it just as quickly. “I’ll get the luggage, angel.”

“Oh, are you sure, dear boy? It’s really quite heavy,” Aziraphale protests.

“S’nothing,” Crowley mutters, and he _really_ doesn’t know what’s possessed him to want to carry both his and Aziraphale’s suitcases. It’s almost like he wants to prove himself, but he really doesn’t know who he wants to prove himself _to_.

Aziraphale watches as the demon picks up the luggage, and how he splutters when Victoria gives him a sly comment, something about looking like a twig. The angel stifles a snort, watching the demon struggle, his heart beating with an emotion he’s very familiar with, but won’t name.

The two duos, along with the rest of the passengers, manage to find their way onto the ship, luggage in hand. Crowley makes their first objective finding their room, and then the two will decide where they’ll go from there. As the two entities wander around the levels in search of their suite, the two girls tag along, making idle conversation. Well, it’s mainly Aziraphale making the conversation; Crowley is too busy scowling.

“We haven’t properly introduced ourselves yet, have we?” Bea says, walking beside Aziraphale while Crowley and Victoria trail behind, side-by-side. “My name is Beatrice, and this is my wife, Victoria.” To punctuate her statement, she falls back enough in order to give Victoria a kiss on the cheek. She rolls her eyes and mutters something about public displays of affection.

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley knows he genuinely means it. The angel eats up everything centered around love. It makes Crowley’s stomach churn. “How long have you two been married?”

“Since it’s been legal in the States, essentially,” Beatrice replies, returning to her spot besides Aziraphale. “We’re here for our anniversary, actually!”

“Ah, an anniversary cruise? It sounds like it will be very romantic.” Aziraphale beams down at her, and Crowley wishes he was the one on the receiving end.

“Oh, but enough about us! Tell me about you two. I never did catch your names.”

At this Crowley sees Aziraphale stiffen. Crowley is about to open his mouth but Aziraphale unfreezes just as quick.

“My name is…Aziraphale,” the angel says, and at quizzical glances from both girls he stammers, “It’s…biblical, you see.”

“Sounds like it,” Victoria snorts. She casts her amber gaze onto Crowley, who is staring directly ahead, but can still feel her eyes burning holes into his skin. “What about you?”

“Cr—Anthony,” he says, stammering.

“Cranthony?” she repeats teasingly, cocking her brow. Crowley’s lips curl up and he’s about to snap something witty back before Beatrice interrupts, “Victoria, _please_ don’t tease our new friends.”

If Crowley grits his teeth anymore, they might shatter. Aziraphale laughs at his expense, but he does throw a sympathetic glance over his shoulder.

Crowley considers himself to be calm, cool, and collected, much more so than any of his demon brethren—well, ex-brethren. If one would ask Aziraphale, the angel would disagree, having been on the receiving end of one of Crowley’s mood swings. So, when Beatrice asks The Question, Crowley doesn’t react except for a blink, the words flowing in through one ear and out the other.

“How long have you two been married?”

And really, Crowley thinks, it shouldn’t have taken this long for the statement to register in his head, and if anyone were around them that was telepathic they most certainly could hear the TV static buzzing in his brain.

Crowley doesn’t _need_ to breathe. He doesn’t need to do _anything_. Despite this, once his head has finally cleared enough to function, it seems he’s forgotten how.

“Ah, m-married?” Aziraphale stammers, face flushing carnation pink. “Oh, we’re not—”

Crowley sees Beatrice’s dark eyes move from the angel’s face to his hands, where the only ring that exists is wrapped around a pinky finger. She comes to a conclusion before Aziraphale can even stutter it out.

“You’re not? That’s perfectly fine, too. I guess the term ‘couples’ cruise’ applies to all couples,” she says thoughtfully. “But despite that, I bet you two have been together for a long time. I can just feel it.”

“Oh, you’d be right about that,” Aziraphale says, voice pitched a bit higher than average. “I’ve known my dear Anthony for my whole life, almost. He’s my closest friend.”

_Closest friend_. Crowley ignores how his heart hammers at the title, trying to focus on breathing even and deep to give the façade that he’s an actual human being. There’s so much going on at once; the revelation that this is, in fact, a couples’ cruise, these two peculiar girls thinking they’re _married_, and Aziraphale referring to him as his closest friend, all in one day. Crowley feels as if he’s been dunked into a vat of cold water, not exactly holy.

“And who knows,” the angel continues, apples of his cheeks rising as he smiles. “Perhaps I’ll get the courage to _pop the question_ soon?”

Crowley’s mouth feels like it’s full of cotton and he can’t even speak. All he can do is swallow dryly and pretend to ignore the telling glance he feels Victoria throw at him from the corner of her eye.

The two entities eventually come across their suite and the two girls bid them farewell, Beatrice with a bright smile meant for the two, and Victoria with a smirk directed at Crowley that made it seem like she knew entirely too much.

Once the door to the suite clasps shut Crowley leans against it and sags, arms shaking from not just the weight of the luggage, but also from the Conversation that just took place. Crowley is a six-thousand-year-old occult entity and he’s never felt this ancient in his life.

Meanwhile Aziraphale is puttering about the cabin already, unpacking and tucking away various clothes he brought along for their voyage (Crowley sees white button-down shirts and shorts, _shorts_, for Someone’s sake) and setting out books for entertainment purposes down onto the bed. The bed. The one singular bed on the entire suite.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” the demon mutters.

“What was that, Crowley?” Aziraphale says, stepping over to the window to peel away the curtains, letting the sun’s rays warm the room.

“Aziraphale, can you stop acting so nonchalantly about this?” the demon snaps, and this gets the angel’s attention.

“What do you mean?”

“Angel!” Crowley all but howls, pushing himself away from the door and threading his fingers through mussed auburn hair, clearly distressed. “It’s a fucking couples’ cruise, those girls thought we were married—they think we’re _together!_ In a romantic sense!”

“Well, I couldn’t very well tell them we’re not,” Aziraphale says sheepishly, not meeting Crowley’s eyes. “We might have gotten kicked off the ship.”

“I don’t think that would justify us getting kicked off the ship,” the demon grumbles. “I’m sure there are humans that are just friends who are here and they’re faring perfectly fine.”

“Not from what I sensed,” Aziraphale says, voice clipped. “In any event, this is just for a week. We probably won’t run into those young ladies again, since this ship is so large. But, if we so happen to, we can just pull a façade, so they won’t question it.”

Crowley blinks behind his shades. “Are you suggesting—”

“We pretend we’re romantically involved? Perhaps I am.” The angel gives Crowley a guilty smile, cheeks still dusted rosy pink. “It shouldn’t be that hard—we’ve known each other for six millennia, give or take.” He lets his gaze rest upon Crowley’s, grey against yellow shielded by black, and his smile falls. “Unless you don’t want to, of course.”

That’s the catch, because we all know Crowley wants to. He wants to pretend, he wants to act like he’s on a stage, because he knows this will be the only opportunity he has to even get close enough to Aziraphale in a romantic sense, even if it’s just a smokescreen to hide from the truth.

“Okay. We’ll go along with it.”

Crowley raises his left hand to shake on it but is surprised when Azirapale lifts his right. The demon sucks in a breath when Aziraphale lets his fingers twine together with Crowley’s, angelic heat warming the demon’s cold flesh. He stares at their clasped hands, searching for words that won’t come, and Aziraphale chuckles, full of mirth.

“Let’s have fun on our vacation, dear boy. We’ve earned it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [crawls out of the ground] here it is
> 
> sorry this chapter is mostly dialogue because i can't write for shit also i needed Expedition 
> 
> hope u enjoy sorry if theres typos. follow me on [tumblr](http://https://mixedpaints.tumblr.com/). (I WOULD HIGHLY RECOMMEND YOU READ MY BEFORE YOU FOLLOW BEFORE DOING SO.)

With their new arrangement intact, the two settle into their suite, finding the fridge stocked with complimentary drinks, and a bucket filled with ice and bottle of champagne resting on the ruby red sheets of the bed. There’s two glass flutes perched on one of the nightstands and they allow themselves a drink, toasting to their free vacation. Crowley basks in Aziraphale’s smiles, like a snake sunning itself on a rock, and he can’t help but let his mind wander at Aziraphale’s previous words.

“Did you mean it?” Crowley asks suddenly, lounging on the mattress, champagne flute in one hand and a brochure in the other.

Aziraphale is perched in one of the chairs the room offers, nosing through another brochure that listed all the dining options the cruise offered. “Mean what, dear boy?”

Part of Crowley regrets bringing it up. “What you said. About me being your closest friend.”

Spoken into existence, it hangs in the air between them like forbidden fruit on trees. Aziraphale looks up from the brochure, a look of confusion on his face.

“Of course I meant it, Crowley,” he says softly. “Who else would it be?”

At this, Crowley snorts. “Guess that’s true. Don’t see you being particularly chummy with that prat Gabriel, now do I?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale warns, but his voice isn’t serious. “He’s not that terrible. He’s just…what do the young ones call it these days…a workaholic?”

“He’s just got a stick up his arse,” Crowley says into his champagne before finishing it in one gulp. “Anyway, decide where you want to eat, angel?”

At the mention of food, Aziraphale perks up, pulling open the brochure again. “Not quite! There are so many options. I can’t fathom how they can fit this many restaurants on a single ship.”

After weighing his options the angel eventually decides on a hibachi restaurant, simply because “I’ve heard they do wonderous tricks with their spatulas!” and Crowley’s never been to one before. It’s more of a casual restaurant—there are other dining options that require more formal attire—so Crowley opts for a black T-shirt and his usual jeans, and Aziraphale is in his traditional garb.

They set out from their suite and amble about the boat, the sunset casting its peachy glow across the sea and tinging Aziraphale’s corn silk hair a dusty pink. Crowley catches himself staring as they walk and goes to stop himself, but a thought slithers into his mind—they’re supposed to be in a relationship. He’s supposed to stare, is he not? Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice, prattling on about something Crowley should have been listening to.

Eventually they find their way to the restaurant and take a seat at the bar framing the hibachi grill, Aziraphale giving a little wiggle of excitement. He’s the only one that cracks open the menus they were handed, eager to glance through it.

“What do you think I should get, Crowley?” he asks the demon, who once again is gazing at him with as much reverence as an art student seeing the Mona Lisa the first time. Crowley had been impressed when he laid his eyes on it while it was still a work in progress.

“Whatever you want, angel,” Crowley murmurs. “Tickets didn’t cover food, but I’ve got it covered.”

“Oh, Crowley, there’s simply no need for that,” Aziraphale says after giving the chef his order with a smile. “It wouldn’t hurt you to let me pay once in a while.”

“You know I only do it to encourage your hedonistic tendencies,” Crowley replies, smirking. Aziraphale scoffs and rolls his eyes, mirthfully.

That is what Crowley likes to tell himself. However, he would be reluctant to admit that doing things for Aziraphale gives him a sort of high. Paying for his meals, running errands for him, occasionally saving the angel from unfortunate discorporation—Crowley would make the excuse that doing these things was only for his benefit, not for Aziraphale’s.

A few other couples sit at the bar while the chef prepares Aziraphale’s meal, twirling spatulas and flinging up ingredients in the air, catching them without a hitch. Aziraphale seems captivated, hands clasped together and mouth agape at the parlor tricks. Eventually, the chef begins to build a tower constructed of sliced onions, pouring liquids inside of it that Crowley can’t name, before taking a lighter to it and setting it aflame.

“Oh, wow,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley lolls his neck to avert his gaze from the fire to look at the angel. He takes in the sight before him, Aziraphale’s unruly cotton-tuft hair set ago by the blaze, his wide eyes shining brightly, his mouth pulled into a broad grin. He looks even happier once his food is plated in front of him, piping hot, with a final flourish of sauces from the chef.

With a muted snap of his fingers a roll of bills pops into Crowley’s hand under the table and he drops it into the tip jar.

“Crowley, have you ever seen anymore more scrumptious?” Aziraphale says, snapping apart a pair of chopsticks.

Crowley could answer that honestly but he didn’t want to give secondhand embarrassment to Aziraphale and everyone else on the bloody boat. He merely shrugs, muttering, “It’s food. Looks like everything else you eat.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes before taking his first bite. His eyelids flutter shut and he lets out a near moan at the taste. Crowley crosses his legs, face flushing. It’s not like he isn’t used to Aziraphale’s reactions to good food, but sometimes Crowley thinks Aziraphale knows something he _shouldn’t_, and he’s just doing it to get a rise out of Crowley.

To distract himself, Crowley lets his eyes wander around the restaurant, looking at the other chefs preparing meals, and the couples watching them in awe. He takes in silver and gold bands and hands interlocked, exchanges of loving gazes, and the demon takes a deep breath. He even sees a man offer a bite of his food to his wife, who takes it while staring lovingly into his eyes. Crowley turns away from the display of affection, face flushed, only to see Aziraphale holding his chopsticks up with a morsel of food, as an offering.

“Bite?” the angel prompts, smiling sheepishly.

Through the dial-up tone Crowley’s mind is screaming the demon leans in and opens his mouth, plucking the food off the chopsticks with his teeth. It’s a piece of steak and some egg noodles, lightly crisped from the grill, and even though Crowley isn’t near the food connoisseur that Aziraphale is, he does let out a pleased little moan as he chews, eyes fluttering closed behind his shades. When he pulls back and swallows, he sees an especially flustered looking angel in front of him, cheeks rosy.

“’S good, angel,” is all Crowley says, cursing the way his voice cracks.

Aziraphale seems almost dumbfounded for a solid minute before blinking. “O-Oh.”

“I’m sorry, was it too much? I don’t want to overstep any boundaries—” Crowley starts immediately, but Aziraphale shakes his head.

“No, Crowley, you’re perfectly fine,” Aziraphale says, smiling. “It was…actually my intention. Keeping up appearances and all that.”

Ah. Appearances. The little snake of hope that had slithered into Crowley’s chest curls up and dies. He forces his expression to remain neutral, which is easy with the help of his glasses. Of course Aziraphale was thinking about their other arrangement.

“Yeah. Appearances,” is all Crowley says, and their dinner continues in silence.

Aziraphale finishes up his food and the two leave the restaurant, the angel completely satisfied, a smile playing on his lips. Crowley allows himself a quick glance at the angel, taking in his sated expression.

“What else do you want to do, angel?” Crowley asks. The sun has set, night stretching across the sky, stars dotting against the blanket of night.

“I haven’t really thought about it yet,” Aziraphale says as they saunter along the deck, avoiding looking at the variety of couples leaning against the railing, holding hands and gazing at the moon and the glow its casting on the ocean waves.

The urge to reach out and grasp Aziraphale’s hand takes over him, and the angel sucks in a gasp. Crowley feels like he’s made a mistake and goes to pull away, but Aziraphale merely tightens his grip. The angel gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry, dear boy. Your hand is just cold.”

“Snake and all that,” Crowley murmurs.

Aziraphale surprises Crowley by lacing their fingers together, and the demon feels warmth blossoming in his chest and blooming on his cheeks. Someone, it shouldn’t feel so right, Crowley’s hand shouldn’t fit like a missing puzzle piece inside of Aziraphale’s, the angel’s warmth chasing away the demon’s chill, and yet it does; it feels right, like everything has finally fallen into place, but getting his hopes up is futile. This is a game. It’s for appearances. He knows once their vacation is over they’ll return to their normal routines and Crowley will be once again stuck, the feelings he has unspoken, hidden in his lungs and cracking his ribs with their weight.

Lost in thought, he doesn’t realize someone is calling his and Aziraphale’s names.

“Aziraphale! Anthony!” It’s none other than Beatrice and Victoria, waving at them across the side deck. Aziraphale’s face lights up and he gives them a jaunty wave with his free hand, tugging Crowley along with him.

“Hello there!” Aziraphale greets, tone bubbly. “Oh my, you two look splendid!”

And they did—Beatrice was sporting a lowcut silk dress the color of blood, wrapping around her like it was a second skin. Her hair was pulled into a high pouf on top of her head, her edges tamed and curled neatly against her temples. Diamond earrings dangled from her earlobes and one of her gloved hands was wrapped around Victoria’s, who also looked just as dashing in a dark three-piece suit, hair plaited and thrown over her shoulder.

“Thank you!” Beatrice says, beaming at the two entities. “What have you been up to?”

“We just got finished having a splendid dinner at the hibachi restaurant,” Aziraphale says, and for some reason he gives Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “It was absolutely wonderful, and my dear Anthony paid for it even though he didn’t have to.”

“How chivalrous,” Victoria murmurs wryly, quiet enough for only Crowley to hear. She’s staring the demon down with dark honey eyes and Crowley, despite fears of not remembering how to turn back, wants to shrink into the smallest snake form he can muster and slither away into the ocean.

“But enough about that, what are you two all dressed up for?” Aziraphale asks.

“There’s a formal ball happening on the main deck to kick off the start of the cruise. I’ll never give up the opportunity to see Victoria dressed in a suit.” Beatrice beams at her wife, and Victoria glances away, face flushing.

“Oh, a ball! That sounds like it would be a grand time,” Aziraphale gasps.

“You two should come,” Victoria says quietly. “Dancing is always a good couples’ bonding exercise.” She’s looking pointedly at Crowley, her eyes sliding down to his and the angel’s hands. If Crowley allowed himself to sweat, he’d be drenched.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure it is,” Aziraphale says, clearing his throat. He turns to Crowley with a smile. “How about it…darling?”

Crowley nearly chokes at the pet name, face flushing. His breathing quickens and he sees Victoria cocking a brow expectantly.

“Ngk. Whatever you want, angel,” is his response.

Beatrice claps her hands together! “Excellent! We’re going to head down to the main deck, and in the meantime you both should get ready. Dress to impress, as they say!”

“We’ll see y’all there,” Victoria says, slinging her arm over Beatrice’s shoulder. “Bring your dancing shoes.”

With a final sharp look at Crowley, the wives turn on their heels and disappear along the side deck. Crowley heaves out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, dropping Aziraphale’s hands to scrub down his face.

“I think she knows,” he mutters into his hands.

“Who knows?” Aziraphale asks, a bit alarmed.

“The blonde one. Victoria.” Crowley runs nervous hands through auburn hair. “She knows something. That we’re not actually a couple. That we’re supernatural entities_. Something_.” The demon grimaces. “I’m starting to think she might not be human herself.”

“Don’t be so obtuse, Crowley. I feel like we would know if she wasn’t human.” However, the angel’s brow furrows. “Although, I’ve never seen a human with eyes quite like hers…”

“Exactly. We need to step up our game.”

“How, exactly?”

“We go to this ball, dressed to the nines. We dance. Hold hands. Whatever couples do. Maybe that will get her off my back.” Crowley shivers, remembering piercing amber eyes.

Aziraphale gives a little nervous wiggle. “I suppose I can…bust a few moves, as they say.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and puts his head in his hands.

They retire to their cabin before heading to the ball; while Aziraphale thought to pack more formal attire Crowley really didn’t, opting to just pack similar outfits so he didn’t have to overthink it too much. He’s deciding on an outfit when Aziraphale steps out of the bathroom, having went to dress himself up. Crowley glances up at the angel and his mouth goes dry.

“What do you think, Crowley?” he asks, posing with a little flourish. The tuxedo he’s wearing is made of velvet material, a dark navy that compliments the steely blue of his eyes. The coat has tails that travel down to the back of his thighs, which look well-defined in the fitting trousers he’s in. The look is complete with a pocket watch tucked into his right breast pocket, golden angel wing motif cufflinks, and a black bowtie the cherry on top.

Crowley is struck speechless for a moment and Aziraphale’s face drops. “Is it too much?”

“No, no!” Crowley says immediately, his voice cracking like a prepubescent teenager. “You…you look good. I feel like I’ve never seen you in anything besides tan before.” The demon swallows. “The navy…it compliments you very well.”

Crowley sees Aziraphale’s face light up, the apples of his cheeks rising from his smile. “Thank you, my dear boy.” He gives Crowley a once-over. “What are you going to wear, then?”

“Thinking about it,” the demon murmurs, chin resting on his hand. “Maybe I’ll just wear something black.”

“But Crowley, you wear black all the time,” Aziraphale points out. “You should branch out of your comfort zone! I certainly have, and I feel wonderful.”

Crowley wants to say that no matter what Aziraphale wears the angel will look wonderful either way, but he clamps his traitorous mouth shut. He files through possible options in his mind and stops on one, snapping his fingers to conjure it onto his body. Aziraphale lets out an ‘ooo’ at the burgundy suit Crowley’s called up, completed with a white undershirt and grey tie.

“You look so good in colors, Crowley. You should really wear them more,” Aziraphale says, grinning.

Crowley shrugs. “Black is easy. Matches everything.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphale says, pursing his lips. “Well…are we ready to go?”

Crowley takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and nods. “Yeah. Let’s get on with this.”

They don’t hold hands on their way down to the main deck, but they do walk close enough to brush shoulders, Crowley’s arms shoved into his pockets and Aziraphale’s hands folded against his stomach. To an outsider, they may appear to be two friends who are just walking together, waiting for their dates for the ball, but we all know that isn’t true.

Once they step down the flight of stairs leading to the ball, they’re greeted with people of all different shapes and sizes dressed to the nines, dancing with their respective partners, some at the bar grabbing a drink before they join in on the festivities. Crowley homes in on the bar immediately, jerking his head towards it to lead Aziraphale over. Maybe some alcohol will help calm his nerves.

“Everyone looks lovely, don’t they?” Aziraphale remarks as the bartender gets to work on the martinis they ordered.

“Pretty swanky,” Crowley agrees, throwing a few bills onto the glass countertop when the bartender sets their martinis down. He takes a sip, appreciating the burn as the gin slides down his throat. “Wonder if those girls are here.”

“There they are,” Aziraphale says, pointing.

And they’re there, Beatrice and Victoria, swaying to the music, hand in hand. Even from the distance Crowley can see the adoration in their eyes as they gaze at each other, and his throat tightens. The glint of the fairy lights strung on poles around the deck shine on their golden bands. Victoria spins her wife and dips her down low, grinning at the way Beatrice laughs. Crowley can’t help but let his imagination wander, a certain angel holding his hands, twirling him around, dipping him down low with a possessive hand on the small of his back. Mouth suddenly very dry, he takes another sip of his drink.

“They’re the most adorable wives I’ve ever seen,” Aziraphale remarks, smiling reverently.

“They’re alright,” Crowley mutters. “The blonde one has it out for me, though.”

“Oh, you’re just being paranoid,” the angel says, rolling his eyes. “Ah, look, they’re coming over!”

Sucking in a breath, Crowley downs the rest of his drink, the alcohol burning in his belly, as the two girls approach. Beatrice’s burgundy painted lips are pulled into her usual smile and Victoria’s expression remains neutral, except for the slight quirk of her lips.

“My, look at you two!” Beatrice says, gesturing to the entities. “You both look stunning.”

“You clean up pretty well,” Victoria says, meaning the pair of them, but directing her gaze at Crowley. The demon purses his lips and glares at her uselessly, yellow eyes hidden behind his shades. “Could lose the shades, though. It’s night.”

“I have an eye condition,” Crowley says icily.

The blonde cocks a brow but says nothing more on the subject. Meanwhile, another song starts to play, slower than the one that played previously. Beatrice perks up and turns to her wife, grinning. “Care for another dance, darling?”

“’Course, baby,” Victoria says. She returns her gaze to Crowley and Aziraphale, actually looking at them both instead of glaring at the demon. “Y’all should come and dance, too. I bet you’ve got some skills.”

“Well, I’ve been known to dance the gavotte a few times myself,” Aziraphale says, giving an excited jiggle.

“We’re not doing the gavotte at this ball, angel,” Crowley mutters, and the angel sighs. Victoria lets out a snicker, muffling it with her hand, and the demon’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Nothing. Just think it’s cute when you call your boyfriend ‘angel’,” is all she says, mouth covered.

Crowley flushes, sputtering something incoherent. He’s absolutely reeling at the term _boyfriend_; it sounds so juvenile and human and he feels like it wouldn’t even encompass their relationship if it went beyond something platonic, but _really_, what would they call themselves if they were to embark on a romantic rapport? And, moving on, Crowley may have been responsible for the human’s adoption of ‘angel’ as a pet name, but he really only uses it as a means of convenience when referring to Aziraphale—not that the term isn’t occasionally laced with affection, but only the demon needs to know that.

“Victoria, you’re embarrassing him,” Beatrice chides. “And you still owe me a dance!” She offers up an elbow. “Shall we, darling?”

“Of course, doll,” Victoria says, lacing her arm with her wife’s. She shoots a glance up at Crowley, smirking. “Hope to see y’all on the dancefloor.”

With a wave, the two wives turn on their heels and return to the dancefloor, and Crowley groans, wanting to claw his eyes out.

“She has to know. She has got to fucking know,” the demon grumbles, wishing he had five more martinis in his system.

“Really, Crowley? You’re being ridiculous. She’s just a bit bold, is all. Most people from the southern United States are.” Aziraphale frowns. “I hope that wasn’t too bad of a generalization…”

“She probably thinks we’re too prim and proper and have sticks up are arses,” Crowley says. “Anyway. She’s onto something.” The current song bleeds into another, the same tempo. Crowley lifts his arm, offering Aziraphale a trembling hand.

“Care for a dance?”

Despite the stereotype that demons dance and angels do not, Crowley is not that spectacular at dancing, while Aziraphale certainly is. Crowley chalks it up to the stints he had in those discreet gentlemen’s clubs—certainly they taught more dances than the gavotte and the horizontal tango. The demon shivers at the thought, certainly not out of jealousy.

For the second time that night, Crowley accidently steps on Aziraphale’s feet. “Sorry, sorry,” he hisses, trying to get into the rhythm of the song.

Aziraphale sighs, but not in frustration. “It’s alright, dear boy.” He glances down at his shoes. “But, to save my brogues from scuffs and my toes from shattering, why don’t you follow my lead for the night, instead?”

“If you say so,” Crowley mutters.

Aziraphale smiles, letting one hand drop onto the dip of Crowley’s hip, the other hand gripping the demon’s own. Crowley swallows, feeling his face flush, as he rests a hand on the juncture where Aziraphale’s neck meets his shoulder. Inhaling, he begins to follow Aziraphale’s lead as the angel waltzes to the tune of the music, taking care to avoid the demon’s feet. The angel has a look of content on his face, and Crowley isn’t sure if it’s because he’s having a good time dancing or if it’s because he’s dancing with _Crowley_. He doesn’t let his hopes get too high.

“Are you having a good vacation so far?” the angel asks softly, voice a near murmur blending into the soft music that only Crowley can hear.

“Y-Yeah,” Crowley says. “’S been good so far. But it’s only just started.”

“Ah, you’re right,” Aziraphale agrees, actually _twirling_ Crowley around until their arms are cross at Crowley’s front, the demon’s back pressed against the angel’s stomach. Crowley flushes a brilliant crimson and he’s thankful the only light source is the fairy lights. “We’ll have so much to do once we reach the islands.”

“Ngk,” is all Crowley says, and he lets out a choked noise when Aziraphale whirls him back around, his hand dropping to the small of Crowley’s back, and he dips him down low, so much so that Crowley’s legs nearly give out. He feels lightheaded.

“Sorry, dear boy. Just trying to keep up appearances.” Aziraphale’s face is flushed too. Crowley’s not sure if it’s from the brazen display of affection or from exertion.

The song eventually ends and Crowley feels like he just rode on a rollercoaster with no safety belt whatsoever. The two decide to go back to the bar, appearances decidedly kept, and they both order the strongest whiskey they have.

Crowley doesn’t know how much more he can take without breaking. His foundation is already shattering, feelings bleeding out from the cracks like a river through a breaking dam. It doesn’t help that the angel is so damn _casual_ about it, brushing off their displays of affection as _appearances_. He’s taken back to a time many years ago, a request, a denial, and the word _fraternizing_ spit like venom.

It’s not like that anymore. It isn’t fraternizing anymore. Why does it feel like Aziraphale still sees it like that?

Crowley’s brooding is interrupted by clapping as the two girls approach them again, faces full of mirth. He takes a sip of whiskey to steel himself.

“Absolutely marvelous!” Beatrice praises, clasping gloved hands together. “Anthony, dear, I’ve never seen someone so flexible in my life!”

“Isn’t he talented?” Aziraphale says, smiling, touching Crowley’s arm with more affection necessary for a relationship they’re faking.

“It’s nothin’,” the demon grumbles, shrinking into himself.

The two wives exchange glances, and Crowley can see an entire conversation taking place without the spoken word. It’s almost unsettling, Crowley thinks, how these two girls are almost on the same wavelength as each other.

When they break away from their staring contest, Beatrice offers the angel a smile. “Aziraphale, there’s a table of hors d'oeuvres a ways away that I’d simply love to sample. Care to join me?”

At the mention of food Aziraphale’s face, which was already bright from their dancing, becomes almost blinding. “Oh, that sounds lovely! Care to join me, Cr—Anthony?”

Crowley opens his mouth to reply (he, of course, was going to decline, favoring staying near the bar close to the alcohol) but the feeling of piercing amber eyes singing away at his skin nearly chokes him, and all he can say is, “Nah. Enjoy yourself, angel.”

The angel appears crestfallen, but Beatrice seems victorious, carting the angel away and beginning to converse about their favorite meals. Victoria, ever brash, takes Aziraphale’s place next to the demon, leaning against the bar with an air of nonchalance Crowley wishes he could reciprocate.

Despite the music, an awkward silence falls between the two, the only sound beside the roar of blood in Crowley’s ears being his hammering heart. He breathes deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink, before saying, “So…the weather, huh?”

“It’s okay.” Victoria is staring at him, head cocked to the side, unblinking.

Crowley would be sweating bullets right now if he allowed himself to. Another drink. Another stretch of silence.

And then—

“What is your deal, exactly?”

“What do you mean?” Crowley is almost too quick to respond.

Victoria points a well-manicured, sharpened nail at him. “You can’t seriously think Bea and I are dumb enough to fall for this little show you’re putting on.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” the demon mutters. He feels like he’s on the edge of panic.

“You and Aziraphale aren’t actually _together_.” She gives him a wicked grin, canines a bit too sharp for Crowley’s liking.

“So what? Is it any of your business?” Crowley hisses, grip tightening on his glass considerably. Slow down, he reminds himself. Best not to cause a scene.

“Not really, but it’s embarrassingly obvious how in love you are with him and you haven’t even made an attempt to tell him.”

Crowley’s lips curl into a snarl. “We just met literally today, why are you acting like you know my whole fucking life story?”

Rolling her eyes, Victoria calls the bartender over and orders a lime margarita. When her order is taken, she turns her attention back to Crowley. “Well, _Cranthony,_ because I’ve been in your shoes before I know how shitty it can be to love someone who you think doesn’t return the feeling.”

Crowley scoffs against the rim of his glass. “You don’t know anything.”

“Oh, I do,” she says, accepting the margarita offered by the bartender and taking a gulp. “So what’s the _real_ reason you wear those glasses?” Crowley opens his mouth to repeat what he said earlier, but is interrupted. “And I know it’s not an _eye condition_. I’ve never known anyone with an eye condition that wears Valentino shades.”

Of _course_ Crowley didn’t even consider that. He curses under his breath, finishing his drink in one fell swoop and calling the bartender over for another. Victoria’s staring at him expectantly, her honey eyes almost glowing under the fairy lights, and the demon feels his skin crawl.

With a defeated sigh, Crowley reaches up to hook a finger into one of his sunglasses’ arms, dragging them down the bridge of his nose just enough to peak over with serpentine eyes. “This enough of an eye condition for you?”

Their eyes meet, amber against sulphur yellow, and instead of running and screaming like Crowley expected, Victoria just smiles, crossing her arms and leaning against the bar. She looks like the cat who definitely got the cream.

“I _was_ right,” she murmurs. “Bea is gonna be so pissed.”

Crowley shoves his glasses back onto his face in one swift movement, grimacing. “What the hell are you on about?”

“We made a bet,” Victoria explains, “and whichever of us gets you and Aziraphale to admit that you’re less than human first wins.” She spares a glance at the hors d'oeuvres table, seeing Beatrice and Aziraphale chatting animatedly over the food. The angel is smiling, obviously engrossed in whatever the subject of the conversation is. Beatrice doesn’t even look confrontational at all.

“Ngk,” Crowley says intelligently.

“And I suppose you don’t just call Aziraphale ‘angel’ out of pure convenience because of his stupidly biblical name?” she prompts, resting her chin on her hand.

“How did you even go about figuring it out?” Crowley asks, tone biting, but genuinely curious. No one besides Adam was able to tell of Crowley and Aziraphale’s more occult and ethereal nature. Aziraphale doesn’t necessarily give off any signs of being angelic, and the only indication of Crowley’s demonic disposition are his eyes, which he keeps dutifully hidden.

“Sort of have a sense for it, I guess,” is all she says on the matter. “So you’re a demon, then.”

Crowley sighs. “Serpent of Eden, original Tempter.”

Victoria’s eyes widen considerably, eyebrows raising to her hairline. “Wow. So you’re like, the big shot.”

Crowley chokes on a laugh. “Yeah. Being cursed to crawl on my belly and eat dust for the rest of my days really makes me the big demon in charge.” The bartender slides his refilled drink down the way and he snatches it up with an expert hand.

“So is that why you won’t tell Aziraphale how you feel? Because you’re a demon?” she presses, genuinely curious now.

“I mean…partly. It used to be.” A sip, the burn of alcohol down his throat, something to cling to. “But we’re not exactly employed by our respective sides anymore, so.”

Victoria’s face resembles that of a question mark. Heaving a sigh, Crowley sets out on a brief explanation on the past year, recounting the events of his botched delivery of the Antichrist, and the Armageddon-That-Didn’t-Happen. He wants to make it sound like he and Aziraphale were the main reasons behind its failure but in reality all they really did was give a pep-talk to the eleven-year-old spawn of Lucifer himself. He drawls on about Agnes Nutter and her prophecies, he and Aziraphale’s clever switch of faces, the witch and her hopelessly awkward witchfinder, a sergeant and a psychic, four children that singlehandedly brought down the Four Horsepeople of the Apocalypse, and his flaming Bentley—all this wrapped up in a pretty little bow for Victoria to stew upon.

Her air of nonchalance is shattered and replaced by genuine surprise. “Jesus tapdancing Christ.”

“Hey, I knew him too,” Crowley says. “Great kid.”

“So how old are you and Aziraphale exactly? Is Aziraphale one of those angels with twelve wings and a thousand eyes?” she presses, eyes alight like a child’s on Christmas.

“Eh. Six thousand years, give or take.” The demon shrugs. “Also…I don’t think so? He’s just a Principality. Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden. Had a flaming sword.” He swirls the liquid in his glass, the ice cubes staying frozen simply because they have no other choice. “Where I met him, actually.”

“And he didn’t immediately try to smite you when you slithered up next to him?” Victoria asks incredulously.

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “Just made conversation with me. Told me he gave away his flaming sword, given to him by God, to the humans. Shielded me from the first rain under his wing.” He brings the rim of the glass to his lips, staring off into the distance. “I…guess that’s when it all started.”

She grins. “When you fell in love with him?”

“Shuddup,” Crowley grumbles, doing a mocking imitation of her words under his breath. She chortles at his mockery.

“So lemme get this straight.” Victoria scoots a bit closer to him, and Crowley, surprising himself, does not move away. “You and Aziraphale were, respectively, not that good at your jobs, so you got told to fuck off. And because of your respective sides, you thought you never had a chance to actually tell him how you feel without fear of getting dunked in holy water.”

“Pretty much.”

“Then what’s the fucking problem now?” she says under her breath. “You’re free agents. You can do whatever you want. You’ve been repressing yourself for six-thousand-years, and that’s not exactly the healthiest thing.”

“It’s not the matter of me,” Crowley snaps. “It’s the matter of him. It’s obvious he doesn’t reciprocate. Don’t wanna fuck up what I already have.”

“Obviously he feels enough to want to fake being in a relationship with you,” Victoria points out, smirking.

“It’s a couples’ cruise, he was gonna feel awkward about it if we didn’t,” Crowley retorts. “He can sense love, you know.”

“Oh, bullshit. There are people here who are just friends. Bea and I are roomed next to a few of them.” She actually prods him in the chest with a sharp nail. “Whatever Aziraphale said to you, he _lied_.”

Crowley feels like the walls he built around himself for defense are crumbling down. His hand is quaking, the liquid in the glass sloshing around like the ocean during an earthquake. Victoria gazes upon him, a heavy silence draping upon them like morning dew across grass, suffocating.

“Listen,” she says, voice softer this time. Gentler. Crowley looks up in surprise. “If you keep this up you’re going to live the rest of your life—however long it will be—with deep regret. It’s going to eat you alive. Trust me. I have first-hand experience.” Her eyes shoot to her wife at the hors d'oeuvres table, then returns her attention back to the demon in front of you. “You _have_ to tell him. I’m positive he feels the same way.”

“And what if he doesn’t?” Crowley counters.

“I don’t think that’s a possibility.” She rolls her neck a bit. “You haven’t seen the way he looks at you.”

She’s lying. She _has_ to be lying. “Why do you _care_ so much?”

She laughs. “I’m a simple lesbian. I see a repressed gay man avoiding his feelings, I intervene.” A thoughtful look crosses her face. “Well, a repressed gay _demon_, I suppose.”

Crowley snorts a laugh, but a small, genuine smile graces his features. Though it was like opening up a scabbed-over wound, being honest about his…_feelings_…for Aziraphale eased the weight resting on his shoulders, even if he poured his heart out to some random, ornery woman.

He knows the weight isn’t going to go away completely. Victoria’s words buzz in his head like bees in a hive.

If he keeps up this façade he’s going to regret it for the rest of his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey what's up. sorry this took so long my manic depression started to act up and i've been trying to beat it back with a stick. also i got pokemon shield so i've been rather preoccupied with that
> 
> once again not beta'd so sorry if there are any glaring errors
> 
> follow me on [tumblr!](https://mixedpaints.tumblr.com/)

They eventually make it to the Palma de Mallorca after what feels like ages of crawling across the ocean. During the course of the journey, the two man-shaped beings entertained themselves by drinking expensive wine and dining at expensive restaurants. In fact, they even shared a dinner with the two wives, with whom Crowley has grown more comfortable with, especially Victoria. She’s no longer glaring daggers at him whenever they encounter each other, but still has her knowing smirk every time Aziraphale and Crowley interact, or when Crowley refers to him as _angel_. She’ll occasionally make some snide remark about something and Crowley will reply with some snappy comeback, but it’s all in good fun.

The two pairs would sometimes participate in activities with each other; there was an actual tennis court on the ship and Crowley felt like Victoria only suggested the activity because she knew Aziraphale would dress up for it. Crowley had never seen the angel in shorts in his life and he felt like a ton of bricks was sitting on his chest. The game had went swell until Victoria slammed her racket against the ball so hard it whizzed past Crowley and smacked Aziraphale in the forehead dead center, probably hard enough to cause a concussion if he were human. Immediately Crowley was at his side and it dawned on him that Victoria specifically aimed at Aziraphale just to see Crowley fret over him.

Crowley wondered if she was a demon, too.

As more passengers stream off the ship the ones already off have convened into various groups, awaiting tour guides. The sun is shining brightly, the sky a cloudless blue, and Crowley pushes his glasses up his nose. He’s trying to avoid looking at Aziraphale because the angel is dressed in a simple white polo and Bermuda shorts, and it really shouldn’t be affecting Crowley, but it is nonetheless.

“Anthony! Aziraphale!” someone calls, and the two look up to see none other than Beatrice and Victoria, strolling towards them. Beatrice looks dressed for adventure, white t-shirt, high-waisted black shorts, and sneakers, while Victoria is dressed in her flannel and dark jeans that cling to her legs like a second skin, and combat boots that look like they wouldn’t be good for long strolls. Her hands are shoved into her pockets but the two’s arms are interlocked, respectively.

“Ah, hello dears!” Aziraphale says, face brightening. He’s really taken a liking to the two girls, almost instantaneously; Crowley has taken a bit more time to warm up to them, but he’s glad Aziraphale is enjoying their presence. “Are you excited about today’s adventures?”

“Oh, definitely!” Beatrice says animatedly. “We’re planning on hiking some trails and seeing Santa Maria Cathedral. You two are absolutely welcome to join us if you’d like!”

At the mention of religious architecture Aziraphale’s face lights up. “Oh, a cathedral? That sounds marvelous, I would absolutely love to go see it! What about you, Anthony?”

Crowley cocks a brow and stares at Aziraphale like he’s sprouted two heads. He keeps his eyes on the angel and watches as his face morphs from delight into realization. The memory of Crowley’s last tryst in a church returns, divine energy singing his feet, even though they were shoed. As he said, it’s like being at the beach with bare feet.

Before Aziraphale can sputter something out, Crowley says, “Nah, angel. That’s fine. I actually wanted to explore a bit by myself today, if that’s alright.”

Despite being aware that Crowley can’t enter a church, Aziraphale appears crestfallen. It makes Crowley wish he wasn’t damned for eternity, almost.

“Ah. I understand, dear.” The angel turns his head to the two wives, smiling poignantly. “Would you two mind terribly if I accompanied you?”

Beatrice, who had appeared slightly taken aback by Crowley’s statement, straightens out, beaming at Aziraphale and clasping her hands around his. “We’d love to have you join us, Aziraphale. The more, the merrier!”

“Er, yes, quite,” Aziraphale agrees, allowing himself to be towed away from the group. He spares a glance and a wave at Crowley, who simply nods his head back.

Victoria’s still standing near him, hands shoved into her pockets. She’s not really glaring at him, but studying him, head tilted slightly. Crowley feels like his skin is crawling.

“Guess you’re not coming because you’re a demon, right?” she asks.

Crowley snorts. “How did you know?” He does not mention that the last time he was in a church it had blown up.

“An educated guess,” she says. “So, have you thought about telling him?”

Crowley groans, reaching up to drag his hands down his face. “No. I don’t know if I can.”

“Have some confidence in yourself,” Victoria says, mentally giving Crowley a pat on the back.

“Maybe I’ll use this alone time to think about how,” the demon grumbles.

The girl smirks. “And while you’re brooding over it, Bea is gonna get Aziraphale to come out with it, too. Then we’ll be certain that Aziraphale likes you back.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, feeling like he’s in some shitty American high school drama. He hears Beatrice call Victoria over, their tour bus ready to leave, and sparing a final glance at Crowley, the girl turns on her heals to join her wife and Aziraphale. Crowley tries to ignore how Aziraphale is gazing at him, with an expression that seems familiar, but he cannot name.

Palma de Mallorca, has it turns out, has a variety of quaint little markets in the capital.

Crowley learns this when he picks a tour group at random. He’s glad for this development, because it gives him space to amble about and get lost in his own thoughts. The scents of cooking meat and spices hang through the air, and he knows Aziraphale would enjoy this immensely. He makes a mental note to pick up some snacks for the angel before he leaves.

He watches as the other couples from his tour group stroll around from different vendors, ooo-ing and ahh-ing at all the products and fresh food they sell. Some walk hand-in-hand, others arm-in-arm, and Crowley’s hands, shoved into his pockets, clench into fists. He’s fully clothed and yet he feels completely naked when a certain angel isn’t at his side.

There’s a fountain in the middle of the market square, and Crowley leans against its ledge, basking in the gentle spray of water. He heaves a sigh, staring up at the cloudless blue sky, the sun warming his skin.

He wonders what Aziraphale is doing right now. Probably puttering his way around a cathedral, in awe of old architecture and religious art, taking in the soft echoes of voices reverberating through the arched ceilings. Crowley wishes he could see the angel in one of his elements and the joy on his features.

He thinks back to the conversation he and Victoria had the first day of their cruise. Although he had been annoyed at being berated by a human (he still thinks she’s not) she did manage to knock some sense into him, giving him a glance at his situation from another point of view. He will admit that Victoria did make it sound a bit pathetic for him to be pining after Aziraphale all these years and not doing a thing about it—well, not being able to until recently. She’s right, in one aspect, that the scrutiny of their employers is no longer an interfering factor, but there’s still that doubt niggling in the back of his head, that if he were to tell Aziraphale the angel would decline, politely, and hopefully leave it at that.

There’s also the fear of the angel wanting to terminate their friendship after he confesses—and, well, Crowley can’t even stomach the thought. What would he even _do_ with the rest of eternity without the angel at his side? He doesn’t even want to think about it.

It must be now. Well, not right _now_, at this moment—it has to be on this cruise, because Crowley won’t have the opportunity to run away. Any other time would have too many convenient outings for him to slither out and not return for Someone knows how long, and he doesn’t think Aziraphale would be too keen on him scampering off after dropping something of a bombshell like that on him.

He heaves a long exhale through his nostrils. He’s overthinking it too much, he knows—but he wants to do this right.

Crowley wanders along the stalls, ambling about with no destination in mind. The tour bus that carted the group here leaves in a few hours, so he has time to kill before having to reconvene at the ship. He peruses the stalls, taking in sights and smells, and decides to pick up some handmade candy and fresh citrus fruits for Aziraphale. Crowley knows the angel would love checking out the markets, and he wishes Aziraphale was at his side.

Bag in hand, Crowley continues to saunter some more, moving from the section dedicated to food to an area for handcrafted goods, like leather, clothes, and even jewelry. He wonders, vaguely, if he could find a pair of new leather shoes when he sees it.

It’s a little booth nestled away in a corner, and Crowley feels like it’s supposed to be hidden away, undiscoverable by anyone. He’s inexplicably drawn to it, glancing in both directions before stepping over. It looks like a booth specializing in handmade jewelry, from necklaces, bracelets, and—

_Rings_.

There is one ring that catches Crowley’s eyes, and his heart begins to pound in his chest. It appears to be a simple band of ivory white, but it’s carved to look like two snakes facing each other, maws open wide, about to devour the single red gem in the middle. Upon further inspection the snakes are dotted with smaller crystals, and the demon wonders if they’re diamonds.

_Somebody_ help him.

This must be a cruel joke the Almighty is playing on him. There’s no possible way it’s a coincidence that Crowley finds this ring when he’s on a cruise with the angel he adores the most, faking a relationship in order to get by. He feels like tearing his hair out and screaming.

He doesn’t do that, however. All he does is let his eyes scan over the booth, realizing that no one is there.

_Perhaps I’ll get the courage to _pop the question_ soon?_

Aziraphale’s words buzz in his head like a hive full of angry wasps that has just been swung at with a metal bat.

He shouldn’t do this. They’re not even like that. He should just move on and shove the image of the ring out of his mind.

Instead, Crowley conjures up a thick roll of bills and drops it onto the table, picking up the ring and willing it into a pocket dimension, where it will lie safe and sound until the right moment comes.

Aziraphale has always been a fan of religious architecture, especially cathedrals. He had, of course, waited with bated breath while Notre Dame was erected, the near two-hundred-year wait worth it for the final product. He’d been rather devastated to see it go up in flames, but he kept a positive attitude, assuring himself that clever humans would be able to restore it back to its original glory. (Hopefully it won’t take two centuries this go around.)

He finds himself ambling through the pews of La Seu, gazing at the high-rising ceilings and meticulously crafted pillars and designs. There’s a total of sixty-one stained glass windows adorning the cathedral, the sunlight causing their colors to bleed across the floor. The most spectacular window, the rose window, its breathtaking colors tempting Aziraphale to wander away from the main group. He’s standing there in awe when soft footsteps approach.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Beatrice says, voice full of wonder. She stops next to Aziraphale and gives him a smile. “I’d snap a photo, but I don’t think it would do it justice.”

“It is,” Aziraphale says in agreement, returning Beatrice’s grin.

“I’ve always been fond of the aesthetic,” she says, rocking back and forth on her feet. “Like gothic, I mean. All stained glass and pillars and buttresses. Kind of amazes me how humans manage to craft all of these things.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement. Part of him wants to mention the Almighty, but he reconsiders. No one has really heard from Her properly in ages, and it would be a discredit to hardworking human ingenuity.

He is a bit confused as to why Beatrice says the word _human_ as if she’s not a part of said species.

“Clever things, humans. Or. Er. Us.” Aziraphale clears his throat, cursing himself for the slip-up. He glances at Beatrice from the corner of his eyes, and to his dismay she’s staring at him, a small yet knowing smirk playing on her lips.

“Indeed.” Her hands are clasped behind her back, a mirror image of Aziraphale’s clutched at his front. They’re silent for a moment, gazing upon the colorful glow cast by the stained glass, before Beatrice suddenly says, “_Aziraphale_. Such an uncommon name, isn’t it?”

The angel isn’t looking at her but he can feel her dark stare prickling his skin. He swallows. “I suppose. Biblical, as I’ve said. After an angel.”

Oh, he really shouldn’t have let that slip. Beatrice homes in on him, a twinkle in her eye.

“That’s curious. I don’t recall there being mention of an angel named _Aziraphale_ in the Bible.”

“It’s, ah, in the New Testament?” Aziraphale offers, and his mind falls back to the Buggre Alle This Bible, filing through his memories to see if there was any mention of his name in the mistyped pages. Alas, no recollection is found.

“Actually, in all the books of the Bible I’ve read, I really only think there’s only two or three actual angels with names,” Beatrice continues, voice with a lilt of something rhetorical. “Ah, what were their names…Gabriel? Michael?” She taps a well-manicured finger to her chin. “Was Raphael one of them? I can’t remember.”

The angel swallows. “Er.”

“And then, of course, there’s the Book of Enoch. What angels are in that one—Azazel? Kokabiel? Oh, wait, those are fallen angels, aren’t they?” Beatrice purses her full lips. “I don’t recall _Aziraphale_ being any of them.”

“My mother is very creative,” Aziraphale supplies, because really, he’s at a loss for words at this point. He feels like he’s being interrogated by the police and Beatrice is the so-called good cop that hides bad intentions behind a mask of friendliness. Of course, Beatrice isn’t feigning her kindness, but Aziraphale has to wonder her motive for these inquiries.

Beatrice hums contemplatively, choosing her next words carefully. Every nerve in Aziraphale’s corporation is alight like a live wire.

“Oh, enough dancing around. You’re not human, are you?”

Aziraphale lets out a squeak so high-pitched that he wonders if the dolphins Crowley is so fond of could hear it. It echoes through the cathedral and he feels curious stares from other tourists on him, and with a swift miracle he wills them to glance somewhere else.

“I-I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about,” Aziraphale stammers, wishing he could run away, but finding his feet have metaphorically glued themselves to the floor.

Beatrice scoffs, rolling her dark eyes before glaring at Aziraphale pointedly. “Oh, come off it. No one in their right mind would name their child _Aziraphale_ unless said someone happens to be an omnipotent being.”

“I wasn’t exactly lying when I said my mother is very creative,” the angel says sheepishly.

“And I don’t suppose there’s another reason why your boyfriend calls you _angel_, then?” she presses, a quirk in her lips.

Aziraphale splutters at the childish term, face flushing pink. Beatrice has set a trap that the angel has fallen into, unable to escape. He could, if he wanted, perform a quick miracle with the snap of his fingers and end this conversation here, wiping the girl’s memory clean, but the thought makes him feel wretched.

“I suppose you could say I am a…former member of the Almighty’s Holy Army,” Aziraphale confesses, wringing his hands.

She cocks a well-defined brow at him. “Former?”

“Well, er, it’s really rather complicated,” he begins.

“Victoria filled me on the whole Armageddon scenario, actually,” Beatrice interjects. “I just needed to get you to tell me yourself.”

“Wh—how did she know?” Aziraphale asks, incredulous.

“She talked to your boyfriend. Who, by the way, we know is not _actually_ your boyfriend.”

Aziraphale very much wishes he was back in his bookshop, able to crawl through stacks of books and hide. It doesn’t help that she keeps referring to Crowley as his boyfriend and it’s making an emotion he knows but doesn’t want to name do funny things with his heart.

“When did she even find the opportunity to get him alone?” the angel asks. He’s a bit shocked that a near stranger managed to goad Crowley into spilling his whole life story in one conversation. Although, he does recall that Crowley had been a tad intimidated by Victoria the moment they met, and he can’t help but chortle.

“During the dance. When I stole you away because I was peckish.” She gives him a toothy grin. “Saw the opportunity and I took it.”

“Clever,” Aziraphale concedes. “But…I’m still confused as to why you, erm…care?”

Beatrice chuckles, as if Aziraphale questions was laden in rhetoric. Of course, we all know it is. “It just pains my heart to see you two in your feelings, dancing circles around each other.”

Aziraphale makes a strangled noise, hands clenching each other so tightly their bones could shatter.

It is not a fact to anyone else but Aziraphale the feelings the angel has harbored for the demon over the years. In fact, he has managed to keep a tight lid on them for at least five decades, right at the moment when Crowley offered him a lift home. Since then, Aziraphale has been meticulous in choosing his words around the demon, some of which have come across as a tad cruel. His mind goes back to the bandstand, to “I don’t even like you!” and the airbase, “Come up with something, or I’ll never talk to you again!”

In those moments, intense pressure was resting on his shoulders, threatening to shatter him to his very core. Those words, while he never meant them, were spat in fear; fear of divine punishment and fear of losing one of the only beings the angel cares about.

It wasn’t even like he said them to save his own skin.

It was all for Crowley.

“And how did you exactly deduce all this?” Aziraphale rasps.

“Victoria and I are a tad bit sensitive about these kinds of things. Fear of unrequited love and beings of a more supernatural persuasion, that is. Don’t worry; your secret is safe with us.” She beams at him, a tad poignant. “Although, I did happen to lose our bet…”

Aziraphale wants to splutter at the fact they made a bet about the whole ordeal, but manages to contain himself. Instead, he murmurs, “I don’t really know what else to do, besides dance around it.”

“Um…telling him how you feel might remedy the situation, in my professional opinion.”

“What if he doesn’t reciprocate?” the angel whispers.

Beatrice actually rolls her eyes, moving to stand in front of the angel under the cast of colorful lights to stare him in the eye. Aziraphale takes a moment to really _look into_ them, pools of pitch, and he swallows when he realizes that Beatrice is definitely many, _many_ years older than the age he pegged her as.

“Come on, you’re clever, aren’t you, Aziraphale?” Beatrice says, hands on her hips. Aziraphale wishes he could pin down her accent and inflection but for the life of him he can’t. “Anthony feels the same way about you. He told Victoria himself.”

He can tell she’s telling the truth and it’s making his heart pound, blood roaring in his ears. “That’s…that’s impossible. He’s a demon. He’s not—he’s not supposed to—”

“Love?” Beatrice supplies. “He looks at you with such adoration in his eyes that it makes Victoria want to gag.”

The part of Aziraphale that is still undeniably attached to Heaven wants to object, to rebuke the thought of a demon loving him, and loving a demon, but as a whole, he accepts Beatrice’s words and knows they’re true. He has seen the gazes shrouded by dark lenses, laced with desire for something more, something forbidden by their respective sides. Aziraphale wants—no, _craves_—something more, but it’s uncharted territory they would be breaching, and the angel has always been a creature of comfort.

“I just don’t know what would happen if we actually became…an item,” he frets, twiddling his thumbs. “Crow—Anthony—oh, bugger it all, his name is just _Crowley_—he’s…he’s indescribable. He’s a demon but he’s shown me such immeasurable kindness that even Heaven left me sparse of. He’s charming, and dashing, and sharp and witty and—and everything that I’m not. He asked questions. He rebelled. He was brave enough, yet paid a price no one should have to.” Aziraphale feels like someone has an iron grip around his throat, threatening to squeeze. “And I’m afraid that, if we were to ‘get together’, as one would call it, that…that he would grow tired of me. That I’ll go too slow and that he’ll get fed up with it and move onto bigger and better things. And…and if it were to come to that…I don’t think I would stop him. He deserves whatever he desires. If I can’t give that to him, then…then I’m afraid I don’t deserve to have him at all.”

The weight of Aziraphale’s plight hangs heavy in the air, no longer pressing down on his chest, threatening to choke him. His shoulders relax, his hands dropping to his sides, and Beatrice is gazing upon him with a look so tender and understanding, it makes Aziraphale feel like he’s been flayed alive.

Beatrice slowly closes the distance between them, reaching down to clasp both of her hands in his. Aziraphale stifles a jolt, her hands like ice against his flesh, rivaling Crowley’s cold-blooded touch.

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale,” she tuts, almost like an exasperated mother. “Whatever shall we do with you? Do you really think Crowley would get tired of you, after all these years? Do you really believe he would cast you aside, much like a child would a used toy, and move on just as easily?” Her expression is determined. “I hope it isn’t too blasphemous to call an angel silly, but I think that’s all that can encompass you at this very moment.”

And, surprising himself, the angel finds his lips quirking into a smile. “I suppose I have been rather foolish, haven’t I?”

“Undoubtedly so.” Beatrice gives his hands a squeeze. “I believe it would be in the both of your best interests if you would stop pussyfooting around and come out with it. And yes, it’s going to be hard, like ripping off a band-aid—but once it’s over, you’re going to feel so much relief you won’t know what to do with it. The two of you can bask in it, together, and maybe even hold hands or exchange kisses in the process.”

Aziraphale’s face heats up at an impressive rate at the thought of kissing Crowley, and he gulps. Beatrice laughs, and drops his hands, smiling at him brightly. “I suppose we should get on with the rest of the tour, shall we?”

“Er. Yes,” Aziraphale says, dazed.

Beatrice, with a final smile, brushes past him to join her wife, who was leaning against a pew, gazing at them expectantly. Aziraphale watches as Beatrice brushes her lips against the shell of Victoria’s ear, and the blonde snickering at whatever her wife tells her. The two exchange glances before linking hands and joining the rest of the group.

Watching the two of them, so madly in love and not afraid to show it, Aziraphale makes a resolution.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short i had Two Or Three Big Things Planned for this story and this is One Of The Things and i didn't want to overwhelm anyone
> 
> [i changed my tumblr url here it is please give me your opinions on it](https://chadaziraphale.tumblr.com/)

The four eventually reconvene at the ship, their respective tours ended, and Crowley feels like he’s riding on a high wave that could crash to shore any moment. The image of the ring is burned into his mind, his thoughts racing even at the notion of possibly proposing _marriage_—an institution reserved for humans, whose lifespans pale in comparison to the ethereal and occult beings—to the angel, and he’s even entertaining the idea that Aziraphale would actually _accept_. The image of Aziraphale sporting the ring on his finger proudly floods his mind and he wishes someone would take a bat to his skull to knock the thoughts out of his head.

When the four finally group back at the dock Aziraphale flashes Crowley a blinding smile that could almost light up the dusk that’s fallen, and the demon swallows, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The two wives are trailing behind him, fingers intertwined, both looking very pleased with themselves.

Crowley doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“Hello, dear boy! How was your excursion?” Aziraphale greets.

“’S fine,” Crowley says. He presents the bag of Spanish candy and fruits to the angel. “Got you some snacks.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasps, face brightening. He takes the bag from Crowley excitedly. “Thank you, darling. This was very kind of you.” His face falls slightly. “It didn’t even cross my mind to get you anything…”

Quickly forcing himself to get over the double impact of being called ‘darling’ and ‘kind’ in the same breath, Crowley simply mutters, “It’s fine. I don’t need anything.”

“Nonsense. I’ll have to get you something sometime tomorrow,” Aziraphale says matter-of-factly, and Crowley sees Beatrice and Victoria exchange knowing glances, as if they’re aware of something Crowley isn’t. It makes his skin prickle.

“Ooh, what are you two lovebirds planning on doing tomorrow?” Victoria asks, lips curled into a smirk.

The two beings begin to stammer and flush in surprise, and Beatrice shoots an exasperated glare at her wife, who very much looks like the cat who got the canary and the cream all in one go. Crowley’s mind flashes through all the possible activities they could partake in and he suddenly blurts out, “A beach. We’re going to a beach.”

Aziraphale seems dumbfounded, and Crowley thinks it’s because of his suggestion, but his flustered expression straightens out into a beam. “Oh, that sounds lovely! Have you decided on a certain one?”

Crowley, whose mind feels like it’s full of fuzz, simply says, “Somewhere quiet. Private.” _Romantic_, even, but he refuses to say the word aloud lest it burn his tongue to ash.

Unfortunately, Beatrice says the word for him. “Oh, that sounds so romantic! It’s good to get away from it all, even on a vacation—and I’m sure you’re tired of us tagging along with you.”

“Of course not!” Aziraphale says in surprise, fluttering his hands. “We’ve been enjoying your company immensely. My dear Anthony is my closest friend—well, he is my, er, boyfriend, as it were, really—so it’s very nice to have a few more acquaintances.”

It still knocks the wind out of him when Aziraphale refers to him as his closest friend and it makes it even _worse_ when the angel calls him his boyfriend. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, so hard a coppery tang fills his mouth, and his hands ball into fists into his pockets. Victoria takes notice of this, shooting him a look and a raised brow.

“Well, I’m very glad you think so. We’ll definitely have to meet up for tea sometime when we get back in England,” Beatrice says, casting her gaze at her wife hopefully. “Doesn’t that sound nice, honey?”

Victoria rolls her eyes. “Yeah, doll. These two seem interesting enough.”

Crowley snorts.

Changing the subject, Victoria stretches gangly arms over her head before draping one over Beatrice’s shoulders and says, “Welp, we should probably get back on the ship. I’m tired and hungry as hell.” She glances at her wife. “Ready, doll?”

“Oh, yes,” Beatrice replies, and flashes the two entities a smile. To Crowley, however, it seems more directed at Aziraphale, and entirely too knowing for comfort. The demon wonders what occurred during the three’s tour of La Seu. “Have a good evening, gentlemen.”

“And you too,” Aziraphale says, waving at them as they boarded the ship. He turns back to Crowley with a smile, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps we should retire for the night as well?”

Crowley blinks in surprise. “You’re not hungry, angel?”

“Well, I do have these lovely snacks you brought me…” He trails off, looking unsure. “But I do feel a bit peckish for something more.”

The two’s eyes meet, and Crowley sees an emotion he can’t name behind the steely blue-grey of Aziraphale’s irises. The demon feels as if there’s an underlying meaning to Aziraphale’s statement, but he doesn’t feel like investigating further. The high he was riding for much of the day from buying the ring is waning, and he feels _exhausted_.

“Come on, then,” Crowley says finally. “Let’s get dinner.”

Aziraphale chooses a sushi restaurant, as is his wont, and he orders a variety of rolls, one of which arrives on fire. The angel’s face lit up at the display, the flames reflecting in his bright eyes, and Crowley is reminded of the smell of ash and burning paper. His throat constricts and he swallows back his heart that’s attempting to climb up his esophagus.

He distracts himself by focusing on Aziraphale enjoying his meal. He’s gazing upon the spread of food and eagerly breaks apart his chopsticks, and Crowley can see the wheels turning in his head on deciding what to sample first. Once he finally decides on a roll, the angel plucks it up with his chopsticks and pops it in his mouth, eyelids fluttering as he begins to chew. Crowley finds himself leaning in, chin propped on his hand, staring intently as Aziraphale enjoys his meal.

He loves watching Aziraphale eat. He loves watching the angel’s face light up when a rather decadent meal is placed in front of him, how his brows furrow when he’s enjoying a food so rich, and an occasional happy wiggle when he swallows. Part of it is just amusing to Crowley—an angel indulging in the earthly pleasure of eating, as if it’s necessary for his survival—but if he’s being honest, he really just likes seeing the angel content.

“How was your day today, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks between bites. The words yank Crowley out of his head, and he blinks a few times, letting the inquiry process before answering.

“’S fine,” the demon replies simply. “Went window shopping a bit. Well. Not exactly window shopping, per se, but—I browsed.”

“Oh? Did you purchase anything?”

Crowley swallows again. The image of the ring tucked safely in the pocket dimension pops in his head. “Just the candy for you, angel.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Why didn’t you buy anything for yourself? We’re on vacation; you should indulge yourself occasionally, dear boy.”

What Aziraphale doesn’t know is that Crowley indulges himself by doing things for Aziraphale, riding on the high that it gives him. “Eh. Saw some handmade shoes. Maybe I’ll go back and get them before we leave.”

“I hope you do, Crowley.” A thoughtful look crosses the angel’s face. “Or, maybe I’ll find something and buy it for you, hm?”

The demon shakes his head, cursing that the thought of Aziraphale buying something for him sending a thrill through his serpentine spine. He beats it back with a hypothetical stick.

“We’re not even going to the markets tomorrow,” Crowley says simply. “Beach, remember?”

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling in mirth. Crowley wants to snap a picture and save it until it crumbles to dust with age. “Have you decided where?”

“Somewhere private. Cala Varques, perhaps. Maybe we can take a swim.” The image of Aziraphale in swimwear crosses his mind and Crowley curses himself for feeling his face flush. “You wanted to get away from it all, right?”

“I did,” Aziraphale muses, lips quirking into a smile. “I think it will be very nice. Maybe I’ll collect some seashells along the way?”

The rest of their dinner lapses into comfortable silence, Aziraphale enjoying the rest of his meal contently. Crowley plays swiftly with his sleek black credit card and then they’re off, ambling about the decks to their cabin, taking in the setting sun casting a peachy glow across the dark waters of the ocean. Crowley spares a glance at the angel, his white hair set aglow, a satisfied expression on his face, and the demon feels warmth blossoming in his chest, threatening to crack his ribs.

“Are you having a good vacation so far, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence between the two.

The demon hums contemplatively, glancing away from Aziraphale lest his eyes burn. “It’s been okay. London was getting to be a bit too much.”

“I agree,” the angel replies, and they’ve finally reached the door to their cabin. Aziraphale brandishes the keycard and unlocks it, holding open the door for Crowley with a grin. “After you.”

The last time Aziraphale offered open a door for him he was calling Crowley a ‘foul fiend’. Crowley recalls this with a fond expression, stepping into the room before Aziraphale latches the door shut after him.

“Think I’m gonna head off to bed,” Crowley says, making a beeline straight for the mattress. “I’m knackered, me.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, and if Crowley isn’t mistaken, he sounds almost crestfallen. “Well…jolly good then.” He’s wringing his hands. “I suppose I can retire for the night, too. Many books I’ve brought to read, you see.”

Their sleeping arrangements—well, _Crowley’s_ sleeping arrangement—involves Crowley taking up the whole singular bed while Aziraphale perches at one of the tables in the cabin, nose stuffed into one of the many tomes he brought along with him. It’s less awkward than the demon figured it would be; it’s almost soothing, a comfortable silence between the two lulling him to sleep.

“Whatever sounds good to you, angel,” Crowley says, and with a wave of his fingers he’s dressed in pajamas, a simple black t-shirt and shorts (he was feeling adventurous), tugging aside the comforter and crawling into bed. He slides off his glasses and deposits them onto the nightstand. He feels Aziraphale’s eyes on him, and if he’s not mistaken, running over his form, especially his lithe legs.

He tries not to read into it too much.

“Alright then.” Aziraphale offers the demon a weak smile. “Er. Goodnight, Crowley.”

“Goodnight, Aziraphale.”

Crowley’s floating between stages of sleep when he feels something trying to jostle him awake.

He squeezes his eyes tightly, feeling like he’s underwater, sleep hooked on his ankle like a cinderblock, dragging him towards the depths. He wants to follow the urge to submerge himself completely, but whatever is trying to rouse him is insistent.

“Crowley?” It’s whispered, an inquiry. Crowley knows the voice all too well.

“’Ngel?” the demon manages to croak, eyelids slowly fluttering open, weighed down by the remains of slumber. “’S wrong?”

Though his vision is hazy, he can make out Aziraphale’s expression, sheepish and hesitant. “Oh, nothing’s wrong, dear boy. I…um…was just wondering something, is all.”

“What is it?” he rasps, trying to trample down the slight irritation of being disturbed from his sleep. If it were anyone else he’d be hissing.

Aziraphale seems hesitant, swallowing slightly. Crowley thinks he’s just going to dismiss whatever he needs to say and let Crowley go back to sleep, but then he starts again.

“It’s just that, erm—I had a rather busy day today, exploring the cathedral—and I did happen to go on a little hike with Beatrice and Victoria—and, well, that is to say, I think I’m experiencing a bit of fatigue. I’m not quite sure what to do about it.”

Crowley blinks at the angel, mind absolutely befuddled. “Are you saying…are you saying you’re _tired_, Aziraphale?”

The other entity seems rather embarrassed. “Er, well, when you frame it like that, I suppose I am. I haven’t felt this way since the failed Apocalypse, but I managed to brush it off. For some reason though, I can’t quite get over this bout.”

Of all the possible tricks the Almighty could be playing on him during this excursion, Crowley thinks this may rival the whole ring ordeal. He pushes himself up slightly, scrubbing sleep out of his eyes so he can be more coherent. “D’you wanna try sleeping, then? It’s really nice once you try it.”

“I think I would like to give it the old college try,” the angel muses, but his expression is still unsure. “Only, I’m not sure how to go about it.”

“It’s easy, angel,” Crowley says. “Just close your eyes and stay still and you’ll be out like a light in no time.”

“But…even if I were to try, there’s really nowhere to lay down,” Aziraphale says, voice cracking.

A pregnant pause falls between them and Crowley feels like every synapse in his brain has fizzled out, leaving him speechless except for a few stammers. The one stupid idea that’s sitting in the back of his head manages to shove its way forward from his head, to his tongue, then being blurt out of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t mind sharing. The bed. With you.”

The words lay stagnant in the air and Crowley wishes he could reach up and shove them back into his mouth, swallowing them whole. Aziraphale wouldn’t even fathom sharing a bed with him, a demon, no less; why would he even let himself entertain the thought is entirely beyond his comprehension. He’s gotten too hopeful—

“That would be lovely, if you don’t mind of course.”

Ah.

Crowley’s brain comes back online, rather frantically. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen almost comedically, brows reaching his hairline. He then purses his lips, his expression softening. “Thank you, dear boy. I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Crowley mutters, scooting over to allow Aziraphale access. The dip of the mattress as Aziraphale lays next to him sends a thrill through his heart.

The angel situates himself, leaning against the pillows and crossing his legs neatly, hands folded in his lap. He’s still dressed in his normal attire, and Crowley can’t suppress the snort he makes.

Aziraphale glances over at him, frowning. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“People usually wear pajamas when they’re sleeping, angel. And they get under the covers.”

“Ah,” the angel says. His brow furrows, and with a snap of his fingers, his clothing is replaced with a set of pajamas, and of course, they’re tartan. Crowley rolls his eyes. “I’ll try to get more cozy, then.”

He shifts and wriggles under the blankets, and Crowley feels the heat rolling off Aziraphale’s body, washing over him and warming him from the inside out. His heart is fluttering in his chest and he prays to whatever benevolent deity that’s listening that Aziraphale can’t hear it.

“Okay,” the angel says, once he’s settled. “What next?”

“You close your eyes,” Crowley says. “Think of whatever you like the best. Stay still, and just relax.”

Aziraphale nods, determined. He wriggles more in the covers until his head is resting on a pillow, and after taking a deep breath, he allows his eyes to flutter close. Crowley’s still propped up on an elbow, watching the other entity intently.

“Goodnight again, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers fondly.

Crowley swallows. “Night, Aziraphale.”

Yet, Crowley does not make a move to lay down. He keeps his eyes trained on Aziraphale, the only sounds in the room being the angel’s breathing and the blood roaring in his ears. Minutes pass—they feel like eons. And, to his surprise and uttermost shock, Crowley witnesses the tension from Aziraphale’s body drain away slowly. He watches as the angel’s chest begins to rise and fall steadily, his face softening, neck tilting to the side as his body succumbs to the clutches of sleep. His lips are parted slightly, brows smoothed out, and his hands—which were interlocked over his stomach, have fallen limply at his sides.

Crowley wishes he were an artist, so he could draught this entire scene so he can keep it with him forever.

In the quiet of the room, Aziraphale’s breathing being white noise, Crowley allows himself a brief fantasy of the two sharing a bed _all the time_, of Aziraphale putting his trust in Crowley in allowing himself to witness him in this vulnerable state _all the time_. He thinks about quiet, sleepy mornings, Aziraphale waking up with mussed hair, creases imprinted on his face from the pillow, and Crowley is _next_ to him, sharing the _bed_ with him, and _oh_, the reaction in his heart this fantasy causes.

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitches, and he lets out a soft sound, one that gives Crowley _too many ideas_ to deal with. The angel shifts slightly, nuzzling into the pillow, and he sighs contently, a soft smile gracing his lips. Crowley’s heart swells three sizes.

“What are you dreaming about?” the demon wonders aloud, voice soft.

He knows he shouldn’t do this, but something within is screaming for it. Tentatively, he raises his hand, and with a touch as light as a feather, he brushes the top of Aziraphale’s cheekbone with his thumb. The skin on skin contact burns him, but in such a good way he must stifle a squeak.

It doesn’t help when Aziraphale’s immediate response is to let out a pleased little hum, nestling into the pillow more, and through the fabric, he mumbles the one word that shatters Crowley’s whole world to pieces.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale sighs. It’s the only word he utters before he dissolves into soft snores.

Crowley is known for his emotional outbursts at things that take him aback. This whole scenario should illicit one, if he were reckless enough to disturb Aziraphale’s sleep. However, surprising himself, he stifles the choking noise bubbling in the back of his throat, curses the heat flooding his face, and brings his hand back to himself. With the self-control of a saint, he settles himself carefully, staring up at the ceiling until he goes under once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please pray for me because tomorrow is thanksgiving and the next day is black friday and i am just a lowly retail worker on the food chain of capitalism


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone. i'm back again  
SO. i've made a decision and i think i will include smut in this. i'll probably make it skipable if people dont want to read it so dont fret. i really...Really...just want them to make love Tenderly it's what they deserve. it's not in this chapter and it might not be in the next one but it will Definitely Happen  
also i survived black friday yay for me!  
as always i appreciate all the comments you've left for me! i'm trying to reply to every one but sometimes i get overwhelmed lol  
anyway hope u enjoy this chapter. it's very tender. follow me on [here](https://chadaziraphale.tumblr.com/) if u want

Aziraphale has made attempts to sleep but none of them have been successful, until now. He never really saw a point in it unless you needed it for survival, and, being an angel, he didn’t—he’d prefer to spend his time doing more important things, like reading or repairing books and trying new foods just waiting to be discovered. However, the angel is known for indulging in life’s more…simpler pleasures, and after experiencing sleep successfully for the first time, he adds it to his list of things he’ll have to try again in the near future—perhaps it will be the next night.

Bright sunlight is filtering through the sliding doors leading out to the deck included with their cabin, bathing Aziraphale in buttery light, gently lifting him from the lull of slumber. He breathes in deeply and sighs, the scent filling his nostrils comforting, hints of smoke and musk, and the remains of cologne that smells all too familiar to him. Aziraphale inhales, nuzzling deeper into the pillow—which, he soon realizes, is too _firm_ to be a pillow.

Aziraphale’s face scrunches up in confusion before his eyelids slowly crack open, letting his eyes adjust to the morning light. When his eyes are fully open and adjusted, he’s met with the rise and fall of Crowley’s chest and the demon’s arm slung around him in such a protective way it makes Aziraphale’s heart want to climb up his throat.

It also doesn’t help that the angel’s right arm is tossed over Crowley’s taut stomach, jostling slightly by the demon’s deep breathing.

Aziraphale considers himself to be a rather calm and collected person—well, angel. There are a few instances where he may have become a tad unhinged but other than that, his emotions are relatively tame. Right now, he feels like there’s a hurricane in his chest, tearing through his heart and lungs and trying to shatter his ribs. He feels hot all over, but in a good way, like lounging on a sandy beach on the first hot day of summer, or the slide of steaming hot cocoa down his throat, warming his insides. His cheek is pressed against one of Crowley’s pectorals and Aziraphale can hear the steady beat of the demon’s heart, calm in comparison to the galloping of his.

The logical part of Aziraphale’s brain is screaming at him to move. However, his heart is telling him to nuzzle against the demon more, tightening his arm around Crowley’s waist. The angel does not heed either instinct. Instead, he remains still, and allows himself the privilege of _looking_.

To Aziraphale, Crowley has always been a rather handsome being, lithe limbs and angles sharp enough to cut anyone who dared to get close enough. Yet, here he is, quite nearly attached to Crowley, and despite not having nearly as much padding on his body like Aziraphale does, the angel has never felt more comfortable in his existence.

Aziraphale’s gaze rests on Crowley’s face. He has such gorgeous bone structure, with prominent cheekbones and a strong nose. Aziraphale, on occasion, has allowed himself brief fantasies of dotting said cheekbones and nose with feather-light kisses. He looks more, taking in the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks and nose, and he smiles. There’s a legend that freckles are just angel kisses, and he really wishes he could test this theory.

Crowley’s face, which is usually drawn tight and guarded, is completely relaxed, lips parted and brows soft. He’s not wearing his glasses so Aziraphale gets the joy of counting every ginger eyelash fanning across his cheeks. He never noticed Crowley’s lashes were auburn until now.

Aziraphale has always loved Crowley’s eyes, and he savors any chance he can get to see them. He adores them in any circumstance, but he finds that he’s most drawn to them when the marigold yellow of Crowley’s irises have consumed the whites of his eyes, his slit pupils a shock of black against a backdrop of gold. He’s not sure what causes this change—he hopes it’s not when anything causes the demon distress—but he loves his eyes no matter what form they take. He wishes they were open now, gazing upon him half-lidded, heavy with sleep, but if that were to happen this scene would shatter, and Aziraphale is determined to bask in the glow of this until Crowley eventually wakes up.

Crowley’s eyes are shifting beneath the thin skin of his eyelids; a sign of dreaming, most likely. Aziraphale gazes upon him curiously. He’s aware that most people can’t recall their dreams. He knows he had one during his slumber, but all the bits and pieces are floating around too far apart and he can’t collect them and sew them back into anything decipherable. All he really remembers is…warmth.

Aziraphale snaps back to attention when Crowley lets out a soft sigh, head lolling to face Aziraphale a tad more, and the angel’s throat constricts. It’s really quite unfair how beautiful Crowley is, and have his lips always been _this_ pink? The angel swallows, his face heating up quite considerably, and he has to stifle a squeak when Crowley’s arm tightens around him.

He must move. He has to wriggle himself out of this situation before it becomes terribly more awkward than it already is. For some reason, Aziraphale can’t bring himself to shift out of Crowley’s embrace. But, after a few more moments of basking in Crowley’s warmth, Aziraphale carefully wiggles out of the demon’s grasp, careful not to jostle him awake. He somehow accomplishes this miraculously, and is able to draw the blankets over Crowley more. All he does is let out another soft sigh, and Aziraphale pulls back with a satisfied smile.

The angel makes to turn but stops dead in his tracks when Crowley utters a single slurred word.

“’Ziraph’le.” It’s a bastardization of his moniker but it’s so clearly it that Aziraphale has to whip around to make sure Crowley hasn’t awoken. He hasn’t, his face still smashed into the pillow.

Aziraphale has only blasphemed against the Almighty a small handful of times in his existence and he considers adding to the list, wondering what the hell She thinks She’s playing at. His plump hands clench into fists and his jaw sets stubbornly before he whips around on his heel, stalking toward the cabin’s kitchen. Nothing a piping hot cup of tea can’t fix.

Crowley wakes to himself swathed in warm blankets but an empty bed. His face scrunches up at the flood of light burning his sleep-heavy eyes, and he has to squint until his pupils shrink back into their usual slits. Through the blur of his lashes he makes out Aziraphale’s form sat in a chair, book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

“’Ziraphale?” Crowley slurs, trying to pull himself from the dredges of sleep. “When did you wake up?”

“Oh, about half an hour ago,” the angel says, taking a sip of tea. “Did I wake you?”

Crowley pushes himself into a sitting position, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn and rolling a few cricks out of his neck. “Nah. Um. Did you sleep well?”

“Oh, undoubtedly so, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, putting down his book and beaming at Crowley so brightly the sun would be jealous. “I feel completely refreshed and ready to take on the day.”

Crowley’s not sure if he’s still dazed by sleep or if it’s because of Aziraphale’s blinding smile. In any event, he can’t help his lips quirking upwards. “That’s good. I told you sleep was good, didn’t I?”

“I suppose you were right in that account,” Aziraphale says primly, finishing his tea with a final swig. “In any case, we are still going to the beach today, aren’t we?”

His memory jogs. “Oh. Yeah. Er. Let me get ready and we’ll be off, yeah?”

Cala Varques is one of the most secluded beaches in Mallorca, its white sand and blue waves sheltered with cliffs dotted with greenery and trees. There’s not a tour scheduled to visit the beach but with a minor demonic miracle Crowley manages to score private transportation with just him and Aziraphale; he’s been itching for a drive ever since he left the Bentley in the car park at the port back in England. He spares a glance at the angel in the passenger seat, dressed in a simple t-shirt and tan shorts, revealing calves that look as if they were carved by master sculptors of old, and Crowley has to avert his gaze lest they crash.

It’s an approximately fifteen-minute hike through a wood composed mostly of pine trees from the carpark to reach the beach. The two walk in side-by-side, the picnic basket nestled in the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow jostling slightly with each step. The sunlight filtering through the foliage of the trees sets Aziraphale’s hair aflame and Crowley averts his gaze.

Crowley breaks out of his daydream when sees Aziraphale about to step right off the edge of a cliff. He rushes forward to grip the angel’s arm and tugs him away from the edge. “Jesus, Aziraphale, watch where you’re going!”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale squeaks, stumbling away from the cliff’s edge, settling at the demon’s flank. “It seems I was lost in thought.”

“I thought this was the way to the beach,” Crowley mutters, forcing himself to release Aziraphale’s arm, yearning for the give of the angel’s soft flesh beneath his palm once again. “Guess we took a wrong turn.”

Aziraphale lets out a contemplative sound, shuffling closer to the edge of the cliff. He gasps. “Oh, this is still perfect, though! Let’s set up here for the day, shall we?”

“You sure?” Crowley says, dubious. He’s a bit wary of being perched on a cliff but he remembers they’re both ethereal and occult beings with wings, so it’s really not that big of a deal.

“Quite, dear boy,” the angel says matter-of-factly, snapping his fingers to conjure up a blanket they can rest on. It’s near the edge of the cliff and it looks sturdy enough that Aziraphale perches himself on the rim, dangling his legs off the cliff. He pats the space next to him, an invitation. “Come sit.”

And what can Crowley do besides oblige the angel? He sits next to him, but keeps himself on guard. At this angle, Crowley can see the deep blue of the ocean as it stretches to the horizon, framed by cliffs blanketed in foliage. It is rather pretty, he will admit, but there are other sights he’s seen that are even more impressive. Specifically, the angel next to him, happily digging through the picnic basket for the food they packed, smiling brightly. His shorts have hiked up a little, revealing a small stretch of a creamy thigh, and Crowley feels extremely parched suddenly.

Aziraphale packed a variety of meats, cheeses, and crackers, along with a bottle of champagne. With a flick of his wrists two flutes appear in the air and he pours them both a drink, offering a glass to Crowley with a smile. He raises his glass, an invitation for a toast, and says, “To our free holiday.”

“To our holiday,” Crowley echoes, and there’s a clink of glass on glass.

They sit there and make pleasant conversation over the food, Aziraphale being the one to mainly partake in it—but Crowley does steal a few bites here and there. He thinks humans did something right when they invented cheese. They drain the champagne bottle and it’s enough to give Crowley a pleasant buzz, his whole body warm, but not enough to inebriate him completely. His head lolls toward Aziraphale, who is currently kicking his legs and gazing upon the ocean, a pleased expression on his face.

“Enjoying yourself, angel?” Crowley prompts.

“Oh, immensely,” Aziraphale replies, turning to grin at the demon. “The temperature is just nice and the sea breeze is lovely.” For some reason, he frowns. “Although, I did happen to want to take a dip in the water…”

“Aziraphale, you didn’t bring a bathing suit,” Crowley points out, and of course, his mind conjures up a variety of images, from Aziraphale in an old fashioned bathing suit to him dressed in a pair of swim trunks, the entire first half of his body on full display. The demon swallows, mouth dry.

“You don’t _need_ a bathing suit to go swimming, Crowley,” Aziraphale retorts. “Perhaps I was just talking about soaking my feet.”

“So you wouldn’t take a dip then?” Crowley prompts, smiling wolfishly.

The angel sniffs. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t, dear boy. The issue is we’re very high up and the water may be chilly, is all.”

“Can you even swim?”

“I am the former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, do you really think I _can’t?”_

Crowley puts up his hands, feigning defeat. “Hey, I didn’t say anything like that at all! Just curious, is all.”

Silence falls between them. The only sound that fills it is Aziraphale stuffing a cube of cheese in his mouth and chewing. He swallows, and then says, “Why don’t we do it?”

Crowley has to beat away the innuendo that wants to slip out of his mouth with a stick. “What?”

“Take a dip, as you say,” Aziraphale says. He brushes crumbs off his shirt before continuing, “It shouldn’t be harmful; we’re both immortal beings, and we’ve certainly have experienced worse.”

“Wh—you mean _here?_” Crowley splutters. “Aziraphale, we’re probably thirty meters up!”

“I don’t see a problem,” the angel says simply, pushing himself up onto his legs. He threads his hands together on his belly and grins down at Crowley. “Unless you’re afraid of heights, of course.”

Crowley sputters out consonants and vowels before he can arrange them into words, and scrambles to his feet. “Of _course_ I’m not afraid of heights, I have _wings_, for Someone’s sake.”

“Then you wouldn’t object to a swim with me?”

Crowley falters, giving a hesitant glance over the ledge. It doesn’t look as high as he thought—not enough to discorporate, that is—and of course they’re immortal beings that could simply heal themselves if they got hurt.

He remembers Falling, with a fat capital F, and he remembers his wings being singed with hellfire and the reek of sulphur invading his nostrils.

He is not afraid of falling. He’s done it twice before—once from Heaven, and once in love. Honestly, it’s not a big deal at this point.

He is afraid of jumping.

“You know what,” Crowley says after a while. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

Aziraphale blinks in surprise. “Are…are you sure, dear boy?”

“Yeah. ‘S not a big deal. If you’re up for it, that is.”

The angel sniffs, hands dropping to his sides and approaching the edge of the cliff carefully. “I most certainly am up for it. I think it will be fun.”

Crowley closes the distance between him and the ledge, and he’s close enough that he could brush his hand against Aziraphale’s. His stupid human heart is thundering in his chest and he takes in a shaky breath. The blue of the ocean looks intimidating now, like it’s going to rear up and swallow him whole, and when he spares a glance at Aziraphale, the angel is looking back at him.

“Are you ready, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks.

Sucking in a breath, the demon nods. “As I’ll ever be, angel.”

“Good.” Aziraphale also breathes deeply, straightening out his shoulders and puffing out his chest.

“We’ll do it on three, then,” Crowley murmurs. He slides off his glasses and tosses them into the picnic basket, which they will probably forget. “One…two—”

“_Three_,” they both say in unison, catapulting themselves off the cliff.

Crowley is aware that staying upright and allowing your feet to hit the water first is key to not doing damage to your centers, and he is also aware that one should take a deep breath before jumping. He only does one of these, letting his feet part the water before being submerged completely. The breath he held slipped between his lips in the form of a yelp.

The timespan between the dive and hitting the water feels like it spans eons. In this moment, he allows himself a glance at the angel, and the sight of Aziraphale with his expression alight, a smile splitting his face in two, makes Crowley’s stupid heart beat impossibly faster in his chest.

When the water splits itself in two to accommodate them, the ocean’s salt does not burn their eyes or nose, and does not taint their mouths, simply because it has no other choice. The blue water swallows them whole, and they stay afloat underwater, gazing up as the sunlight’s rays skim across the surface, casting intricate patterns across their faces.

Aziraphale’s face is still split in a smile, his cotton hair drifting in the water, and he’s watching the display above them in awe. The blue of the water is making his eyes stand out considerably, and Crowley swallows, throat dry. The angel breaks away from the display and smiles at Crowley, and it’s bright, too bright, rivaling the sun, and Crowley wants to look away, but he can’t. His eyes are stuck on Aziraphale, his candy floss hair drifting up and down, the strip of belly revealed as water currents lift his shirt, and a peak of thighs as his shorts do the same.

And Aziraphale is _looking_ at him, and Crowley wonders if he’s looking for the same reasons, but he doesn’t allow himself to get his hopes up. The angel simply grins as him and waves, and he is momentarily distracted by a school of fish that just so happen to swim by. A few of the creatures actually approach the angel, pretty fish of assorted colors. They swim circles around his head and if he could underwater, Aziraphale would probably coo over them.

Crowley knows the love Aziraphale has for all of the Almighty’s creations, however big or small. His mind goes back to Brother Snail, and his lips quirk into a small smile.

Crowley wonders, idly, if Aziraphale’s love for all of creation would apply to him, too. He is a creation of the Almighty, is he not? But, he realizes, he is damned for eternity, and even though angels and demons are created of the same stock, an angel could never truly love a demon, even in a general sense. Yet, his mind prompts, Aziraphale has never been a model angel, just as he hasn’t been a model demon.

Aziraphale said his name, though, in the deepest of slumber, with a content smile on his face. Victoria made the bold statement that the angel gazes at him with adoration when Crowley does not see it.

The weight contained in the cage of Crowley’s ribs feels like it’s going to sink him to the bottom of the sea. He closes his eyes, then opens them, and makes a snap decision.

Crowley will tell him. _He has to tell him_.

He’ll do it over dinner tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey gamers. it's back and better than ever  
i got so much secondhand embarrassment writing this shit i hate them so much  
ALSO, A WARNING! i am planning on the next chapter being (very tender and loving) smut! so the rating will change when i finish the next chapter. i'll most likely write it where you'll be able to skip it if its not your cup of tea. but its going to be Tender. like......stick a fork in me....because i Am Tender  
im planning that there will be only 2-3 more chapters of this...probably 3. maybe. 2? i dont know  
anyway hope u enjoy thank u for all ur loving comments xoxo
> 
> [follow me on tumblr!](http://chadaziraphale.tumblr.com)

Though he is loath to admit it, Crowley has never had this much fun in his life.

He and Aziraphale had bobbed along in the water for awhile until their skin pruned, and then they managed to scale back up the cliffs with a few beats of their wings to collect their picnic basket (“We are _not_ littering, Crowley!”) and navigate the forest until they could find the shore. They were dripping wet, the salt of the ocean soaked into their clothes and hair; Aziraphale’s cotton curls were plastered to his temples and forehead, occasional tufts sticking up every which way, and he looked so giddy and alight that Crowley couldn’t help but smile.

They eventually found their way to the actual shore and found it empty, no miracle needed, except for one to conjure up a blanket for them to lounge on, soaking up the sun’s rays and taking in the salt-smell of the sea. They let the sun dry them out, clothes stiff and hair wild, and they just talked about mundane things, like the weather, or they fish they saw during their deep dive, or about a crab that scuttled past. All during this, Crowley gazed at Aziraphale, who was too preoccupied with the scenery to notice.

It’s so odd, he had thought, seeing the angel look so carefree. Of course, since they averted the Apocalypse, Crowley had noticed a change in his demeanor—Aziraphale’s shoulders were no longer drawn taught, his face was no longer tight with anxiety, and he smiled a lot more—at _Crowley_, no less. He wasn’t sure if it was from stopping Heaven and Hell from clashing on a bloody battlefield or if it was because he was no longer under Heaven’s scrutiny.

_“Then what’s the fucking problem now? You’re free agents. You can do whatever you want. You’ve been repressing yourself for six-thousand-years, and that’s not exactly the healthiest thing.”_

Victoria’s words had echoed in his head while they laid on the beach. Crowley had mulled over them, swishing them around in his head like one would a fine wine in their mouth before swallowing, digesting; and Crowley allowed this statement to digest undoubtedly. He had formulated the plan in his head while they were submerged. He’d wine and dine Aziraphale, take him to the swankiest restaurant the ship had to offer, and then he would confess. It was probably the stupidest idea he ever had, but being surrounded by a potential audience would encourage him to not slither away into the ocean again.

They stayed at the beach all day, and as the sun began its habitual trek towards the horizon, they departed, hiking back through the woods to the car park. Crowley miracled stubborn flecks of sand clinging to both of their clothes with a simple flick of his wrist, and Aziraphale flashed him a thankful smile. The drive back to the dock was comfortably silent, Aziraphale humming a jaunty little tune to himself. Crowley’s fingers drummed a rhythm on the steering wheel.

“What an exciting day,” Aziraphale remarks as they begin to board the ship. His cheeks are rosy—probably from the sun, Crowley thinks. He turns to the demon and smiles. “Did you have fun, Crowley?”

Honestly, Crowley thinks, it doesn’t really matter if he had fun or not, as long as Aziraphale did. “It was alright.” He frowns, reaching up and rubbing a lock of auburn hair between his thumb and forefinger, stiff from the saltwater. The frown curls into a grimace. “Not gonna lie, I kind of feel disgusting right now.”

“I find I agree,” Aziraphale says, worrying the hem of his shirt with his fingers. It’s stiff as well. “I suppose we can return to the cabin and freshen up before we get dinner.”

At the mention of dinner, Crowley’s breath hitches, but the angel does not notice. He is suddenly reminded of the promise that he made himself, and Crowley does not consider himself a demon to break promises.

“We’ll go somewhere fancy tonight, my treat,” Crowley says as they finally reach the door to their cabin. He doesn’t even bother waiting for Aziraphale to swipe the keycard, instead willing the door open with a flick of his wrist. The angel flashes him an exasperated look, but Crowley just grins, gesturing for Aziraphale to step inside.

“I promise you, you _will_ let me pay for dinner eventually,” Aziraphale warns as they step inside, Crowley latching the door shut shortly after. He slides off his shoes and places them neatly at the door, and the demon thinks it’s kind of pathetic that the flash of ankle he sees makes his throat feel dry.

“You keep telling yourself that, angel,” Crowley says simply. He goes to flop on the bed but stops himself, considering his stiff clothes, dirty with sea water. “Eugh. I feel so gross.”

“You’ve let it be known already, dear boy,” Aziraphale says. He reaches up to finger a lock of white hair. “We could always miracle it away, but it is nice to actually bathe once in a while, is it not?”

Crowley makes a noncommittal sound of agreement, trying to pull of his socks, which have decided to attach themselves to his flesh and become a second skin. He feels Aziraphale scrutinizing him from the corner of his eye and he frowns. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” the angel says, twiddling his hands. “Er—would you like to go first?”

“Go first?”

“To bathe, I mean.”

Crowley blinks. “Er. You can go first, Aziraphale. I can wait.”

“Are you quite sure?” Aziraphale says, and he looks almost nervous and the demon can’t deduce why.

“Yeah. ‘S fine. Gives me a chance to figure out what to wear tonight,” Crowley says. He gives up the goat and slumps onto the bed, sighing in content. “Go ahead, angel.”

“Alright then,” Aziraphale says, already making his way to the bathroom. “I shan’t be long.”

Crowley tries (and fails) to push away the thought of Aziraphale under a steaming stream of water, pools of it collecting in soft collarbones and wet curls of hair framing his face like a halo. He aims for an air of nonchalance, wiggling on the bed until his back is resting against the mountain of pillows before pulling out his phone.

“Take as much time as you need, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale decides against a bath and instead takes a shower instead. Baths, he thinks, require an allotted amount of time to enjoy, and he doesn’t want to hold up his and Crowley’s dinner plans.

He undresses while he lets the shower run, allowing it to warm up before he steps inside. Although he had fun on today’s excursions, he does frown at the state of his clothes and skin, feeling like he’s covered in a thin film. He sees a piece of seaweed stuck to his shirt and he plucks it off with a frown.

When Aziraphale steps under the steamy stream of water he lets out a sigh he didn’t know he had been holding. He rolls his neck around a bit, tense muscles relaxing under the hot water. He feels the aches from the day melt away along with the film of saltwater soaked into his skin. He allows himself to stand under the stream of water, head ducked down, eyes focused on the water swirling down the drain, and he thinks.

He thinks about the mischievous look in Crowley’s eyes when they stood on the edge of the cliff, hyping themselves up to jump. He thinks about the squeak that Crowley let out while they were suspended in the air (he does _not_ allow himself to linger on the fact that he found it endearing). He thinks about when they both hit the water, floating in the expanse of blue, and the image of Crowley: flaming hair a floating mess in the water, golden eyes wide, and a small smile dancing on his lips.

Again, Aziraphale forces himself not to focus on the stripe of belly that was revealed as the water currents pushed the demon’s shirt up.

The walls that Aziraphale has so meticulously constructed ever since the Beginning have weakened considerably, their foundations crumbling down. It’s surprising that they didn’t downright shatter whenever he slid into the water.

It’s been hard to stand behind them since they stopped Armageddon—well, at least putting it off for a bit, who _knows_ what the Almighty has planned—because Crowley has been orbiting around him nearly every day, like Aziraphale is the sun and the demon is the Earth. The trysts to little fusion restaurants and to St. James’ Park, feeding the ducks and pointing out humans they think are spies, and evenings spent in the bookshop’s backroom, words exchanged over their alcohol of choice—all these things they took for granted before the world almost didn’t end, they can now indulge in, engorge themselves on. Crowley had been forgoing his glasses more and more, showing his eyes freely, and Aziraphale is grateful for it; he can always get lost in those pools of gold.

_“He looks at you with such adoration in his eyes that it makes Victoria want to gag.”_

He can attest to this statement, simply because he has allowed himself the privilege to see and be seen. The gaze Crowley had on him while they were underwater was one of the most tender looks he’s ever seen the demon give him. Of course, he’s been aware of the sly glances shielded by his shades as well, and he always gets a thrill from catching Crowley’s eyes for a split-second before he jerks away.

Aziraphale is aware that demons are not supposed to be able to love. Well, that’s what he’s been _taught_ to believe. There are things he’s been taught that aren’t necessarily _correct_, he’s begun to realize. It’s going to take awhile to break the chains of Heaven’s…_conditioning_, as it were. He’s never bothered to fall out of line simply because he believed everything Heaven stood for to be Right.

Then Crowley came along.

Whenever the Almighty decided to reign despair among humanity was always when Crowley decided to show up, pointing out Her slightly murderous tendencies and how it’s a bit overdramatic when you kill millions of people just for the remaining to turn to you for guidance. At the time Aziraphale had been incredibly offended, brushing off the other being with a simple, “Of course you wouldn’t understand, you’re a _demon_.”

A long time ago, Aziraphale would be reluctant to admit that he admired Crowley, simply for asking questions no one else would.

Now that he’s no longer attached to Heaven by proverbial chains, he’s starting to understand Crowley’s point of view.

And since he’s no longer apart of Heaven, there’s no reason to deny his feelings for Crowley.

And, _and_—according to an outside party (albeit a party that the two had met only days ago) there is a possibility that Aziraphale’s feelings are entirely mutual.

Aziraphale remembers the resolution he made in the cathedral, under arched ceilings and stained glass and the eyes of God Herself.

Over dinner is the best way to confess your love to someone, he decides.

The restaurant Crowley decides on is one of the swankiest ones on the ship—and Italian. The quality of the food has never really mattered to him, since the only things he’ll eat are morsels he’ll sneak off Aziraphale’s plate. He won’t admit that he’s really rather fond of angel food cake.

He’ll also take any opportunity to see Aziraphale in any other outfit besides that blasted century-old tan jacket.

Aziraphale delivers, opting for a black tuxedo this time, a staggering difference from everything he’s donned before; it clings to his broad shoulders in a flattering way, trousers accentuating stout yet strong legs, and there’s a tie around his neck—an actual _tie_, not one of those silly tartan things he dons at all times. His hair is styled in a way that takes Crowley back to Paris and crepes.

Crowley decides on something on the opposite end of the spectrum—a white suit similar to that of the one he wore at Warlock’s eleventh birthday part, the day where it all went pear-shaped. His hair remains the same, tousled with the appearance of being windblown; he can’t really grow it out within the span of a few days without drawing suspicion.

So they make their way to the restaurant, shoulders brushing against each other; Aziraphale’s hands folded in front of him and Crowley’s shoved into his pockets. They make idle chitchat on the way, and Crowley responds when prompted, making the occasional sound of agreement every once in awhile. Mainly, his attention is drawn to the other passengers they pass by while on the way to dinner, hands interlocked, and it makes something within him _ache_.

He is jerked out of his reverie, almost violently, when Aziraphale snakes his arm around Crowley’s. The demon blinks behind his shades, mind trying to process what just happened, when the angel says, “You look as if you’re about to float off into space, Crowley. Someone must hold you down, I suppose.”

There’s so many _layers_ to that single statement that Crowley could sit and peel away at and dwell on but he’s in public, so all he can really do in response is to let out an undignified sound and stare straight ahead. He swears that he sees Aziraphale smirking in the corner of his eye.

Even when they reach the restaurant Aziraphale does not let Crowley go, and the demon feels like his whole face is burning, from the back of his neck, to the tips of his ears, to the cutting edge of his cheekbones. Aziraphale is humming a pleasant tune to himself as they wait in line to be seated, and Crowley lets his eyes wander about the restaurant before his gaze lands on a particular table, where two peculiar wives were sitting at.

Small world, he guesses.

They look absorbed in conversation, their outfits done up to the nines—Victoria’s back in a suit and tie and Beatrice in a burgundy gown with a plunging neckline, hair pulled into two buns atop her head. Victoria spares a glance up at the right moment and catches Crowley staring at her.

She narrows her amber gaze at him, smirking when she sees he and Aziraphale connected at the hip almost, cocking a brow expectantly. Crowley spares a glance at Aziraphale and sees that the angel doesn’t realize they’ve been spotted. He looks back at Victoria and swallows.

He hopes she’s good at reading lips.

_I’m going to tell him_, he mouths from across the room.

Victoria squints her eyes at him again, as if she was in deep concentration, before they widen comedically, eyebrows rising to her hairline. She reaches to tap Beatrice’s hand, which was laying on their table, and points in Crowley’s general direction.

_He’s gonna fucking tell him!_ are the words Victoria’s lips form. Beatrice’s looks like she gasped, following her wife’s glare until she meets Crowley’s eyes. Her full lips pull into a joyful smile and she clasps Victoria’s hands in hers in excitement.

_Good luck, Crowley!_ Beatrice mimes, and Crowley, through his nerves, briefly wonders how she figured out his actual name.

“Misters Crowley?”

The questioning tone of the maître d’ redirects his attention, and then he’s promptly and metaphorically socked in the jaw when he realizes he made the reservation under his name, and it’s only presumable to everyone in the blessed restaurant, the blessed boat, and the blessed _world_ that the man-shaped being his arm is linked with is none other than The Other Mr. Crowley.

“Me. Us. Yeah,” the demon ekes out. He notices, but does not acknowledge, the almost _satisfied_ smirk Aziraphale’s lips quirk into. He does not acknowledge it simply because he doesn’t have the brainpower to.

The maître d’ gives him a simpering look before taking two menus and gesturing for the two to follow them. Crowley gives Victoria one last fearful look as they’re led away. All she does is smirk and gives him a thumbs-up.

“Oh, thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says once they’re at their table alone, as Crowley pulls out his chair for him.

“No problem,” is all the demon can say before he sinks into his chair, folding himself into a position one might call ‘sitting’.

Crowley orders a bottle of the most expensive wine off the menu, hoping it’ll be enough for him to steel his nerves before he sets off to explain the feelings he has for the angel. In fact, he’s not even sure if he’ll be _able_ to explain them, simply because they’re beyond anything a human language could encompass.

Aziraphale contemplates his order before settling on an entrée that Crowley assumes is a type of pasta—when in an Italian restaurant, after all—and he gives a polite smile to their waitress as she takes the angel’s order off after delivering a bottle of wine.

“Drink, angel?” Crowley prompts, already pouring a glass for himself.

“Oh, definitely,” Aziraphale says, and the ownership of the glass shifted from Crowley to the angel. He takes the glass with a smile and waits for the demon to pour his own before offering a toast. It’s just a general toast, a clinking of glasses just a sound in the monotone murmur of the restaurant, but there’s so many things behind it that need not be said.

Crowley takes a sip of the wine—it’s really quite good, dry and tart just as he likes it—and swirls it around in his mouth before swallowing. He glances up just at the right moment, watching Aziraphale enjoy his wine, and how his throat moves when he swallows. Crowley briefly allows himself to fantasize about burying his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, breathing in his bookish scent, and then his traitorous brain has the _audacity_ to conjure him an image of him pressing kisses to the angel’s throat. To cover up the choking noise his voice box makes, he takes a large gulp of wine.

It’s a funny world, he thinks, when he realizes that the way he’s sitting, he’s faced directly in front of the two wives, while Aziraphale’s back is to them, unaware that they’re here. They’re staring at Crowley expectantly, Beatrice’s lips pursed and Victoria’s pulled into a grin. Crowley sinks deeper into his chair, hiding behind his wine glass.

He feels like he’s being flayed alive.

“Crowley? Are you alright?”

He jolts, nearly sloshing wine onto his white jacket, but it suddenly disobeys the laws of physics with a small demonic suggestion. His eyes snap up to Aziraphale, whose expression appears of the concerned variety, but with another emotion layered underneath.

“Er, yeah, ‘m fine,” he says. He ignores how his voice cracks.

“You seem a bit dazed.”

_Not dazed_, he thinks. _Just trying to figure out how in Heaven I’m going to go about this. Should I do it before he gets his food or after? I don’t want to ruin his dinner. He gets really fussy when food is concerned. But if I do it before will we just sit in an awkward silence? I hate awkward silences. And then those two keep staring at me like I’m some circus attraction—_

“_Crowley_.” Aziraphale is giving him a knowing look, one perfectly groomed brow raised. “You’re lost in your own thoughts, it seems. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Crowley says immediately. “Just tired. Busy day and all.”

Aziraphale looks like he’s about to argue but that’s when, thank Someone, his food arrives, and Crowley wants to capture a snapshot of the angel’s face when it lights up as his food is placed in front of him, and keep it in his pockets until it crumbles to dust with age.

And yes, it was pasta.

“Oh, this looks delightful,” Aziraphale remarks, already twirling noodles around his fork.

“Enjoy it, angel,” Crowley says, already propping his chin up on his hand.

Aziraphale always throws himself into his interests, and food is no different—his eyelids flutter shut and a pleased sound rumbles from his throat. While his eyes are closed, Crowley spares a glance at Beatrice and Victoria, and they’re still looking at him in anticipation. Victoria makes a gesture with her hands expectantly.

_I’m not gonna tell him when he’s eating_, the demon mouths.

_Oh, for the love of God_, Victoria mouths back.

_Don’t bring Her into this!_

She rolls her eyes, turning to whisper something to her wife. Beatrice giggles, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. Crowley’s brow twitches in irritation.

_If you don’t tell him I’ll tell him for you_, Victoria threatens, eyes nearly glowing in a predatory way.

_You wouldn’t dare_. If his voice were behind the statement, it would have been a hiss.

_Try me, lover boy!_

Victoria can’t see how Crowley’s eyes have narrowed to near slits behind his glasses, but his lip is curled into a sneer.

“Crowley, what on _earth_ are you making that expression for?”

Aziraphale is glaring at him, with an appearance that Crowley would call ‘annoyed’. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, as if he’s an exasperated parent waiting for a disobedient child to behave.

“This is just my face,” Crowley says.

“No, it’s not. I know _your_ face.” Aziraphale’s expression softens. “You’ve been acting odd all evening, dear boy. If there’s something wrong, please tell me.”

Well, here he goes.

“Actually,” Crowley says, managing to work around the lump that’s forming on his throat, “there is something I’ve been meaning to, ah, talk with you about.”

Aziraphale shifts, sitting up straighter, his undivided attention focused on Crowley. If the demon allowed himself to, he would almost think that Aziraphale seems a bit excited about whatever is going to spill out of Crowley’s mouth, and he’s really not sure how to feel about it.

“Er.” _Where am I supposed to start?_ He lets himself a glance at the two wives, who seem to have become his personal cheerleaders through his whole scenario, and he swallows. “I’m just trying to figure out how to put it into words.”

Aziraphale purses his lips, and suddenly his posture relaxes. He gives Crowley a smile, but it does not reach his eyes. “If I’m to be truthful, dear, there has been something I’ve been needing to say, as well.”

Crowley’s head snaps up, so hard that his neck cracks and his sunglasses jostle. “What is it?”

“Well,” Aziraphale frets. “I don’t want to talk over what you need to say. I’ll let you go first.”

“No, angel, it’s fine. I still don’t know how I’m gonna say it. You first.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, exasperated but still fondly, and heaves a sigh; it’s almost as if he doesn’t know where to start, as well. His hands lay flat on the table, his fingers intertwined, and gives a little wiggle with his shoulders.

“Well,” the angel says. “I suppose I’ll start at the Beginning, shall I?”

Crowley leans in, rapt and at attention already. Every background noise and distraction fades out of existence, and in this space only exists an angel and a demon, and the feelings in said demon’s heart that can barely be contained in his ribs.

“I remember that day,” Aziraphale starts, voice soft, yet so, so loud. “In the Garden, when we first met. You slithered up the wall and stood next to me, and I expected a fight—a fight I would not win, obviously, I gave away my sword—anyway. Instead, I was surprised with friendly conversation. You reassured me that what I did was not in vain, and when I told you I gave the sword away…oh, your expression. Your golden eyes were wide and your jaw dropped, and you looked as if you were a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. I shan’t forget it anytime soon.”

Crowley makes a noise deep in his throat, not of his own volition. Aziraphale does not acknowledge it, and instead continues.

“Something compelled me to shield you under my wing. I think that’s the moment where you drew me in, and it took many, _many_ years to accept that.” Aziraphale appears poignant. “I refused to admit it to myself, but…I always admired you, Crowley. I still do. I admire how brilliant you are, how cunning, and how you never took things at face value. I could never be as brave as you are, my dear.”

“You are, though,” Crowley rasps_. You’re the bravest angel I’ve ever met. You made a demon your best friend._

“It’s nice of you to think that, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs. He’s smiling at Crowley, that bright, Aziraphale smile that he loves, and he drinks it in.

His smile eventually falls though, and Crowley aches. “I haven’t been as nice to you as you’ve been to me, however.”

“No, angel,” Crowley says, voice cracking. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“Neither did you, and yet you did,” Aziraphale retorts.

“Always a rebel, me.” And they both laugh, and the atmosphere is lighter, but there are still the words that need to be said, hanging in the air.

Aziraphale, who was once tense, seems relaxed now. His hands are no longer interlocked, and are instead resting on the table, within reach. Crowley goes back to the day at the Ritz, the angel’s hand on the table between them as he leans in and gushes about how he asked for a rubber duck, and how the demon yearned to cover his hand with his own and thread their fingers together.

And so he does.

Aziraphale does not flinch away when Crowley drapes a spindly-fingered hand over his, plump and well-manicured. Instead, his face brightens like the sun, and threads their fingers together. Crowley is glad, because he feels like he will float away at any moment without an anchor.

“Should I start quoting Shakespeare now, or…” Crowley trails off, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“_Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?_” Aziraphale offers, and the demon rolls his eyes.

“You’re insufferable, angel,” Crowley murmurs. His heart is beating like a drum in his chest. “I guess that’s why I…” He trails off. He looks at Aziraphale. “You have to know, right?”

Aziraphale gives a little wiggle, face full of mirth. “I have a general idea, dear boy. But I would really appreciate hearing you say it.”

Crowley doesn’t know why he was expecting anything different, traditionalist that Aziraphale is. He can say it. He can say it and he’s sure it’s reciprocated, but a part of his mind is hissing that the angel is just humoring him. There’s a stretch of silence, and his knee is bouncing like he’s about to bolt and throw himself off the blessed boat, and then—

“I love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and it’s almost a squeak, loud enough to draw attention from some of the other restaurant patrons. He feels eyes on him, and his stupid human heart is doing a rather impressive drum solo in his chest, “and I have for so long, and I think you do too, but I don’t know if it’s that general love that all angels have—you know what I mean—or if it’s _love_ love, and I’m probably just making myself look like a prat right now—”

“Crowley.”

It’s like a zipper pulls his mouth shut. He blinks at the angel, whom has started to rub soothing circles on the top of Crowley’s hand with his palm.

“I love you, too, you silly serpent,” Aziraphale says with a smile. “And yes, it’s _love_ love.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Oh,” Crowley says.

“Quite right. Now,” Aziraphale says, bringing Crowley’s hand up to his mouth to press his lips against it, feather-light. “Would you like me to kiss you now, or would you rather wait until later?”

Crowley scrambles out of his chair embarrassingly fast, so much so that it gets knocked over, and he feels curious stares boring into his back but he doesn’t _care_, because he’s at Aziraphale’s side in a split second. The angel smiles and stands up to meet him, and Crowley reaches up to grasp his tie in a fist before tugging him over and covering his mouth with his own.

Logically, this should burn them—an angel and a demon, lips crushed together, Crowley’s hands framing Aziraphale’s face with the care and gentleness one would pay a fragile piece of art—and yet, it doesn’t. It doesn’t burn, and no choirs of angels nor hordes of demons come barreling towards them for their betrayal, because they have faced Heaven and Hell and Satan himself and oh, they’re _afraid_. They’re afraid of them, of Aziraphale, of Crowley, of what they’ve done and what they’re capable of. And Crowley smiles against the angel’s lips at this thought, that they’ve done it, that he finally has Aziraphale like he’s always wanted him and that no one, not Heaven, nor Hell, nor Satan, nor _God Herself_ will take him away.

And through all of this, there are people giving them applause. Part of Crowley is shocked, because from what he’s learned most public displays of affection are frowned upon, especially one so brazen as this, but he chalks it all up to this being a couple’s cruise.

“Take me back to our cabin, darling?” Aziraphale whispers against his lips.

When they excuse themselves (after the angel conjures up a rather impressive roll of bills to toss on the table; Crowley squawks indignantly) the demon happens to catch the eyes of Beatrice and Victoria, looking very, _very_ pleased with themselves.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is 5.4k words of pure tender lovemaking. it's 2 am my head is pounding and i'm so, so tender im crying. i love them  
like i said if ur uncomfy with porn u can skip this chapter entirely!! but it's tender  
im very tired!!! i will try to reply to your comments tomorrow!!!  
if theres any typos im sorry. i am Very Tired!  
i probably won't get the next chapter up before christmas but definitely before new years (hopefully)! so i hope you all have a merry christmas if you celebrate, and happy holidays <3 (i think hanukkah starts today? happy hanukkah!) i really appreciate all the positive feedback i've got for this fic it really keeps me going <3  
i'm too tired to link my tumblr but it's chadaziraphale <3

Crowley really wasn’t expecting this turn of events, so it would be an understatement to say that every nerve in his body was alight as Aziraphale walked with him, clinging to his side, a pleased expression on his face, the apples of his cheeks beautifully flushed. When they arrive at the door to their cabin, he gives Crowley a simpering look as the demon’s quaking hands fumble with the card key, and with a flick of his wrist the door opens.

“Thought you didn’t like frivolous miracles,” he murmurs, crossing the threshold.

“I don’t consider that to be frivolous,” Aziraphale says, and the way he shuts the door with a push of his foot _really_ shouldn’t affect Crowley that much, but it does anyway. “Especially considering what I was going to do if you didn’t open it soon.”

“Oh, really? And what would that be?” Crowley asks, breathless, as the angel crowds him against the closed door.

“I would have snogged you out in the open, in front of God and everyone,” Aziraphale says, hooking one finger in the knot of Crowley’s tie, dragging him close enough that the tips of their noses brush.

“Oh, don’t bring Her into this,” Crowley mutters, repeating what he mouthed to Victoria.

“Terribly sorry, dear,” Aziraphale says, grinning. The hand that was tugging Crowley’s tie comes up to frame his face. “May I kiss you again, Crowley?”

“Absolutely,” Crowley breathes, and their lips collide once again, with a gentle beginning, but with an underlying desperation that grows more apparent the longer their lips move together. Aziraphale lets out a contented sigh and Crowley commits it to memory, wants to keep it in a locket around his neck and have it forever.

Another hand comes up to Crowley’s face to replace the one that slides to his neck and he shivers, the pad of the angel’s thumb rubbing softly against Crowley’s cheekbone. There’s so much _love_ in the gesture that Crowley’s stupid heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his ribcage.

Aziraphale’s lips move from his mouth to the corners of his lips, pressing feather-light kisses all over his face, from his cheeks to his browbone to his forehead, murmuring pet names between each kiss, _my darling, my dear, my love, sweetheart, honey,_ and Crowley is burning under his collar and suddenly wishes he had less clothing on.

“You’re such a sop,” he grumbles, and Aziraphale smiles at him. Crowley is looking away in embarrassment but the angel tucks a finger under his chin, coaxing him to meet his eyes.

“And you’re not?” he murmurs, leaning in to press his lips against the demon’s again. “Don’t think I didn’t realize your little plan, dear. ‘Wining and dining’, as one would call it?”

“Hgk,” is all Crowley says.

“It was very romantic, Crowley. I appreciate your willingness to go all-out for me.” They kiss again, Aziraphale smiling against his lips. Crowley’s hands, which had been laying uselessly at his sides, have gained an ounce of bravery and have rested themselves on Aziraphale’s hips. Those hips, the ones that he’s been thinking about, and they’re still plush underneath the fabric, and he can’t help himself when he gives him a little squeeze.

There’s so many things Crowley wants to say, and the only thing that makes it out of his mouth is, “You’re so fucking _gorgeous_, angel.”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale says, trying to appear scandalized, cheeks pink. “You’re one to talk, dear.”

“Eh, I’m alright.”

“You’re _perfect_. Dashing, handsome, cunning, brilliant—”

“Alright, alright, tell the whole _blesssssed_ world, why don’t you,” Crowley hisses, but there’s no malice behind it. In fact, the corner of his lip is curled into a traitorous grin.

They kiss again, but there’s a more desperate edge as their lips move together, and Aziraphale tears his lips from Crowley’s. The demon whines at the loss, but it turns into a gasp when the angel presses his mouth against Crowley’s neck, and there’s a graze of _teeth_.

“Ah,” Crowley sighs, head thumping back against the door. “Ow.”

“Should we move this to somewhere…comfortable, my love?” Aziraphale murmurs against the column of his throat, nibbling his Adam’s apple.

“I mean, if you want, I don’t want to pressure you into something you don’t wanna d—hck!”

Crowley is abruptly cut off when Aziraphale leans down and hooks his arm underneath Crowley’s knees, his other curled around his shoulders. He hoists Crowley up as if he weighs nothing, carting him to the bed and laying him down gently. Crowley’s shell-shocked, mouth open in a little ‘o’. Aziraphale gazes down at him and snickers. “What’s that look for?”

“I—you—I mean—” Crowley swallows, unable to find the words. “Warn a demon next time!”

“Are you implying there will be another time I’ll sweep you off your feet?” Aziraphale replies cheekily, leaning to kiss Crowley’s nose. Crowley scrunches his nose and the angel gazes at him endearingly. “Sweetheart?”

And oh, the thrill that shivers down Crowley’s spine at the pet name makes the hairs on the back of his neck prick up. “Yeah?”

“May I remove your glasses?”

“Y-Yeah,” he rasps, and goosebumps run down his arms as Aziraphale gingerly slides the glasses off his face. His eyelids flutter, letting his eyes adjust to the light of the room and the brightness of the angel’s smile.

“Oh, _Crowley_,” Aziraphale coos, hands coming to frame Crowley’s face again. “I’ve always wanted to tell you how lovely your eyes are.”

“They’re snake eyes,” the demon mutters. “Not really that pretty.”

“Oh, but they _are_,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s eyelids flicker shut briefly, trying not to squirm at the praise. It’s doing some rather…_interesting_ things to his corporation, to say the least; he’s feeling very hot, molten lava at his core, and he wishes he wasn’t wearing so many layers. “I love when you give me the opportunity to see them. I should have appreciated them more before you started wearing those blasted sunglasses.”

“Can’t exactly go walking around with yellow eyes and slit pupils, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “Humans get kind of weird about things like that.”

“I suppose you’re right in that aspect, but I always loved it when you felt safe enough to take them off around me,” the angel murmurs. He’s actually climbed on top of Crowley now, hands still cupping his face, his thighs framing Crowley’s hips. “I love them when they’re simply round irises, and I love them when the yellow engulfs the whites of your eyes, and”—the smile comes back, but it’s leaning on the edge of predatory—“I’ve never seen your pupils dilated before, dear.”

Crowley makes a noise in the back of his throat that he can’t describe, and Aziraphale’s hand falls back to his tie, finger hooking in the knot before murmuring, “Might I take this off?”

“If you peeled away my skin layer by layer I wouldn’t object,” the demon croaks.

“As if I would cause you harm.” Aziraphale shakes his head, and soon the tie is laying on the floor.

“Law of equivalent exchange, angel,” Crowley says, reaching up to finger Aziraphale’s tie before yanking it off. Aziraphale rolls his eyes at the reference to alchemy, but he leans down to capture Crowley’s lips in another kiss. In the process, he brushes against the prominent tent in Crowley’s pants, eliciting a gasp out of the demon.

Aziraphale smirks against the demon’s lips and gives an experimental roll of his hips. Crowley sinks his teeth into his lips to smother the moan in his throat. The angel tuts affectionately, tilting Crowley’s chin up to look at him. The demon’s eyes are fully yellow, pupils blown wide, and he’s flushed beautifully.

“My darling demon,” the angel murmurs. “Would you give me the privilege of making love to you?”

Cocoons of butterflies suddenly erupt in Crowley’s stomach and all he can really do is nod, and he reaches to thread his fingers through Aziraphale’s cotton-puff hair to drag him down into a desperate kiss, groaning against his lips as Aziraphale presses his knee against Crowley’s groin again, and he’s so hard it’s almost painful.

“May I undress you, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks softly, trailing a finger along the demon’s jawline.

“Yeah. Yes,” he rasps. “As long as I can take your clothes off, too.”

The angel snickers. “Of course, dear. But you first.”

Aziraphale helps him shrug out of his jacket, and it joins their ties on the floor. The brazen display of uncaring attitude Aziraphale has for their clothing at the moment shouldn’t turn him on even more, but the throbbing between Crowley’s legs does not cease. The angel takes care to unbutton his shirt, pressing kisses to Crowley’s skin as more is revealed, and the demon sighs, head lolling.

“Oh, your blush goes down to your chest,” Aziraphale remarks, mouthing against a prominent collarbone. “How adorable.”

“Demons aren’t adorable,” Crowley mutters. A grin creeps on his face and he reaches up to cup Aziraphale’s face. “A certain Principality, however—”

“Don’t distract me,” Aziraphale says, and it turns into a giggle as Crowley presses a kiss to his nose. “I’m still undressing you.”

“You’re taking your sweet time doing so,” Crowley points out. “You know we can just miracle them away, right?”

“Of course I do, but it’s not as fun!”

Crowley scoffs at the word, but something else crosses his mind entirely. Something that causes an ugly knot of jealousy to curl in his stomach. He grows quiet, and Aziraphale notices, hands freezing on the demon’s stomach.

“Crowley? What’s wrong?”

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, glancing away. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment. “’S nothing.”

Of course, Aziraphale is having none of it. “It’s obviously not nothing, darling. What’s wrong?”

Crowley swallows, mouth suddenly dry. His hands ball the bed’s comforter beneath him into fists. “Have you—have you done this before?”

The angel tilts his head to the side. “Done what before?”

Oh, he’s really going to make him _say_ it, isn’t he? “This whole…thing. _Sssex_, I mean.”

Aziraphale blinks, once, twice, before he smiles coyly. “No, love, I can’t say I have. There have been…_offers_, yes, but I always turned them down. Didn’t seem right, you see.”

Crowley can’t help the flood of relief that washes over him, and he lets out a content sigh. It’s stupid, he knows, but he wasn’t always a fan of the thoughts that would sometimes sneak into his head, about Aziraphale laying with humans; it’s possessive, he knows, and he’s aware that Aziraphale is his own angel, so to speak, so he can do whatever he wants—but it doesn’t stop Crowley from being worried about it.

“And what about you, Crowley?” Aziraphale prompts, fluttering his eyelashes at the demon demurely.

The demon chokes, looking away from Aziraphale lest he erupt into a pillar of hellfire. He mutters his answer under his breath, and he knows Aziraphale is glaring at him to speak up.

“I haven’t, okay?” he grumbles. “It didn’t seem right, like you said.”

For some reason, Aziraphale has a look of confusion. “Not even for a temptation?”

“Lust is the easiest sin to get humans to fall for,” Crowley explains, deadpan. “And yes, I tempted humans to lust after _other humans_, when I needed a quota to fill, but—I haven’t, personally.”

There’s a beat of silence between them. The heat between Crowley’s legs has died down, and he’s still not looking at Aziraphale, but he can feel the angel beaming at him nonetheless.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says reverently. “So I’m your fi—”

“Alright, alright, that’s _enough_,” Crowley groans, covering his face with his hands. “No need to poke fun at me.”

“I’m not poking fun at you, sweetheart. It just makes me want to make sure that this is good for you,” Aziraphale whispers, gently prying Crowley’s hands away from his face to gaze into yellow eyes. Crowley feels exposed, like behind the angel’s steely blue eyes rests the glares of thousands. He would not be surprised if a whispered “Be not afraid” comes from his lips.

“It will be good because it’s you,” Crowley murmurs, taking Aziraphale’s hand and pressing a soft kiss to his pulse point.

“What a responsibility you’ve placed upon me,” Aziraphale says with a grin. That’s when he leans over and covers Crowley’s body completely with his, crushing their lips together, and the demon moans into his mouth, sucking Aziraphale’s bottom lip between his teeth.

“Just because I haven’t done the act doesn’t mean I haven’t read about it,” Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley’s lips, hands mapping out the expanse of Crowley’s shoulders and chest, thumbs dragging over his nipples. Crowley can’t help but gasp at the contact.

“Should’ve known you’d have raunchy smut novels in that blasted bookshop of yours,” Crowley says, voice rising in pitch as Aziraphale’s lips move down to Crowley’s neck, sucking bruises against his throat. “You’re gonna leave a mark—”

“That’s the point, dear,” is all Aziraphale says, pressing a kiss to the purpling flesh before returning to his collarbones, nibbling at the prominent juts of bone beneath skin. “Do you remember when we dived into the ocean?”

“Not exactly something I’d forget, angel,” Crowley says, gasping as Aziraphale dips his tongue into his navel (which he doesn’t need, but keeps it around to save face).

Aziraphale presses a smattering of kisses to his stomach before murmuring, “I saw how you were looking at me. In Heaven, I was always told…that demons couldn’t love.” His grip on Crowley’s hips tighten, almost possessively, and it sends a thrill up Crowley’s spine. “They were wrong.”

“Been saying that the entire blessed time,” Crowley mutters, sucking in a breath when finally, Aziraphale hooks his fingers in the beltloops of his trousers and tugs. He’s clad in just his black boxers, and the angel is staring at him like he’s a feast. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Sorry, darling. I just…” Aziraphale trails off, gazing at the purples and blues blossoming on Crowley’s skin. “I’m so happy I get to _see_ you now.”

Crowley doesn’t even attempt to throw up a façade of nonchalance at this, simply because he feels like his insides are melting. He swallows, apples of his cheeks rising in a small smile. “Me too, angel.”

“I’m so glad you think so, too.” Aziraphale’s eyes slide down the expanse of Crowley’s body until they rest on the apex between his legs. The demon squirms, reminded of his throbbing erection, which had flagged a little during their conversation, but immediately hardens under Aziraphale’s gaze. “Can I get my mouth on you?”

Crowley makes a variety of noises Aziraphale will find endearing before finally settling on, “Yeah, yes. Please.”

The angel beams, shrugging off his own jacket and tossing it aside, unbuttoning his shirt away from his throat, and Crowley shoots up to press his lips to the pale expanse of Aziraphale’s throat, sinking his teeth into the flesh. Aziraphale sighs, threading his fingers through Crowley’s auburn hair, letting the demon work on the rest of his buttons, hearing him mutter curses as his hands tremble. He eventually succeeds and peels the shirt off Aziraphale, throwing it somewhere in the recesses of their cabin, laving the available skin with more kisses. The skin-on-skin contact is making his head spin and his boxers even tighter, and Crowley keens when Aziraphale slides an adventurous hand down to cup him over his underwear.

“Trousers off,” the demon pants against Aziraphale’s lips, clinging to him like a lifeline.

“In due time, dear. I did say I wanted to suck you off, didn’t I?”

Crowley moans wantonly at this. “Jesus Christ, Aziraphale, don’t talk like that.”

“And why ever not?” the angel prompts, guiding Crowley down to lay on his back once again.

“Because I’ll embarrass myself and this night will end too early.”

“Oh, Crowley, you know we don’t have refractory periods, don’t you?” Aziraphale’s on his belly between Crowley’s legs now, breath puffing against the tent in the demon’s boxers. Crowley hisses.

“And how would you know that?” Crowley counters, voice shaky as Aziraphale slides his underwear down lithe legs, revealing his cock, hard, flushed, and already leaking.

“Just because I haven’t done anything with anyone else, doesn’t mean I haven’t done anything with myself,” Aziraphale says simply, before leaning over and taking Crowley into his mouth.

Crowley can’t help but gasp, back arching off the bed, eyelids fluttering shut. Aziraphale hums around him, and the vibrations make the demon’s hands twitch on the comforter. Aziraphale’s mouth is hot, plush, unlike anything Crowley’s mind could think up, and he lets out a shaky sigh as he’s taken deep, the angel lathing his tongue up from the base to the crown, kissing the tip. He spares a glimpse up at Crowley and is pleased to see he’s disheveled nicely, hair mussed and cheeks flushed a beautiful scarlet.

The angel presses another smattering of kisses against Crowley’s cock before taking him back into his mouth, and Crowley cries out, hands flying from the bedspread to spread in Aziraphale’s hair. The angel smiles—well, whatever smile one can make with a demon’s dick in their mouth—and begins to bob his head, drinking in the soft sounds Crowley’s making, music to his ears.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley keens, hips jerking up on their own accord. The angel reaches and digs his fingers into what little meat Crowley has on his hips before holding him down. “Fuck—”

The fact that Aziraphale is pinning him down like he weighs nothing is making his cock throb even harder. He’s wriggling in the angel’s grip, not out of discomfort, but because he can’t thrust up into the welcoming heat of his mouth. He whimpers, wondering what fucking erotica Aziraphale had read that taught him how to suck dick like this.

Aziraphale pulls off Crowley with a pop, one hand relinquishing its grip on Crowley’s hip to wrap around his cock, jacking him off slowly. The angel’s lips are a delightful shade of pink, wet with saliva, and the demon wants to lean down and capture them in a kiss.

“How many times can I make you come tonight, I wonder?” Aziraphale muses aloud, rubbing his thumb over the head of Crowley’s cock. He drags his thumbnail gently across the slit and a gasp is punched out of Crowley’s throat, hips twitching forward. “Oh, you’re gorgeous, my love.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Crowley says, voice raising in pitch as Aziraphale flattens his tongue against the base of his cock and drags it upward. “Jesus Christ—”

“We shouldn’t bring him into this, either,” Aziraphale says, quirking an eyebrow. Crowley rolls his eyes and his head flops against the pillow, neck lolling.

“What else am I supposed to say? Do you want me to say _Gabriel’s_ name? Oh, my G—_Aziraphale_—”

Crowley is cut off when Aziraphale, quite brazenly, hoists Crowley’s legs over his shoulders and sits up on his knees, pulling the demon up to where only his shoulders and head were resting on the bed. Aziraphale’s mouth is once again on Crowley, and his cock is deep enough that he can feel Aziraphale’s throat flexing around it.

His first orgasm of the night overtakes him unexpectantly, a high-pitched moan ripping out of his throat as Aziraphale milks his pleasure out of him. His eyelids flutter shut, and Aziraphale gazes in adoration, watching auburn lashes brush against freckled cheekbones. He swallows and lifts his mouth from Crowley’s cock, a thin string of saliva and release stretching from the tip. He gently lays Crowley back down, loving the way his demon is panting from the force of his orgasm.

“Ah,” is the only sound Crowley can make, voice hoarse.

“Good, darling?” Aziraphale prompts, crawling over him to press a kiss between his eyebrows.

Crowley makes a vague noise, but it’s a confirmation, at least. Aziraphale smiles at him, bringing his hand to cup Crowley’s cheek before kissing him. The demon sighs into his mouth, languid against the sheets, swiping his tongue over the angel’s bottom lip, tasting the salt of himself.

However, just because he’s basking in the afterglow doesn’t mean he’s still not a demon.

Crowley lifts his knee and gives an experimental nudge to Aziraphale’s crotch, rubbing against his clothed erection, and the angel gasps against his mouth. Crowley smirks.

“You look like you’re happy to _ssssee_ me,” he hisses, and there’s a flash of canines.

“Darling, I’m _always_ happy to see you,” Aziraphale says, breath hitching as he ruts against Crowley’s knee. His round cheeks are flushed and his hair is mussed deliciously, and Crowley threads his fingers through it and tugs him down for another kiss. Aziraphale sighs against his mouth, hips moving almost as languidly as Crowley’s. “Ah…”

“You gonna get off against my leg, angel?” Crowley murmurs. “Be really fucking hot if you did.”

“Oh, Crowley, don’t encourage me,” Aziraphale breathes, shuddering at the suggestion. “I wouldn’t want to ruin these trousers…”

“Nothing a quick miracle can’t fix,” Crowley says, leaning up to worry Aziraphale’s earlobe between his teeth. Aziraphale gasps, hips stuttering. He looks _gorgeous_ like this, unraveling at the seams, and Crowley takes a snapshot of this in his mind, filing it away for future reference.

Crowley is aware that Aziraphale is a fan of pet names, showering him in a variety of them every time he opens his mouth, and is always pleased at the demon’s reaction to them. Vaguely, Crowley wonders if Aziraphale likes these same endearments, too. He’s never objected to being called _angel_, and Crowley assumes that’s because he’s, well, an _actual_ angel. Crowley files through possible options until he settles on one that he thinks encompasses Aziraphale perfectly.

Crowley’s hands grip the angel’s plush hips before moving to his ass and squeezing. This elicits an almost scandalized gasp out of Aziraphale, as if he didn’t just have a demon’s cock in his throat a handful of moments ago. With an almost predatory smile, Crowley leans up to brush his lips against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear.

“Come for me, _dove_.”

Crowley, being an immortal being, has been around long enough to see beautiful sights both natural and of human invention. However, none of those could rival the sight before him. Aziraphale immediately stiffens, hips stuttering, back ramrod straight as he comes, plump hand covering his mouth and failing to muffle the high-pitched moan he makes.

Aziraphale slumps over, the only thing holding him up being a hand on the mattress, the other still covering his mouth. The flush has spread down his neck and chest, and he breaks the silence that flooded the room with a sigh so love-drunk Crowley’s heart swells, and he shoots up to grab Aziraphale’s hand and wrench it away from his mouth to kiss him.

“God, Aziraphale, that was so fucking _hot_,” the demon groans into the kiss, dragging his nails up the expanse of Aziraphale’s back.

“I’ve never come that fast in my life,” the angel admits, slightly embarrassed. “I was just taken aback by the endearment…”

“Did you like it?” Crowley says between mouthing at Aziraphale’s neck, leaving his mark.

“Oh, yes,” he says, voice ragged. He gazes down at Crowley with reverence one would reserve for a classical piece of art, or, in Aziraphale’s case, a rather decadent meal. The demon gulps audibly. “Crowley, darling?”

“Yeah, angel?”

Aziraphale smiles, and despite just coming so hard he nearly doubled over, he rolls his hips against Crowley’s leg, already hard again.

“May I fuck you now, dear?”

Crowley groans wantonly, hips bucking at Aziraphale’s words. “Yes, fuck, _please_.”

Aziraphale smiles, shifting to wriggle out of his soiled trousers and underwear, and his grin morphs into a grimace. Immediately, Crowley flicks his hand up and the evidence of Aziraphale’s release disintegrate in the air, leaving his trousers and underwear pristine. The angel beams at him. “Thank you, love.”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley mumbles. He shifts, allowing Aziraphale to nestle between his legs, and it’s like he was meant to belong there. His heart is fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings and he’s afraid that the angel will hear it.

Aziraphale gazes at the demon reverently, plump hands kneading Crowley’s thighs. He hooks his hands under Crowley’s knees and spreads his legs wider, and Crowley locks them around Aziraphale’s waist. With a snap, Aziraphale’s fingers are slick and he starts to trace a finger around Crowley’s entrance. The demon shivers, a shaky sigh leaving his lips. Aziraphale’s free hand is rubbing soothing circles on the his thigh, relaxing him.

“Mm,” Crowley hums when one of the angel’s fingers breaches him finally. His digits are shorter than Crowley’s, but they’re thicker, stretching him nicely. He heaves out a breath of content when Aziraphale’s free hand begins to map out his body, fingers skimming across his chest, tracing one of his nipples, causing his breath to hitch. “Angel—”

“You know, Crowley,” Aziraphale muses, gently adding another finger. Crowley lets out a soft keen, back arching off the bed. “I’ve already had you come with my mouth tonight, so I think I’ll have you come around my fingers next. And then…” He leans in closer to let his teeth graze across Crowley’s throat before he reaches the shell of his ear. “…I’ll make you come around my cock.”

Crowley whimpers at this, broken and desperate already. “God, yes, Aziraphale, _please_—”

“Anything for you, my brilliant demon,” Aziraphale coos, crooking his fingers just so, drinking in Crowley’s high-pitched whine that comes from the action.

He begins to thrust his fingers into the demon, curling them occasionally to brush against Crowley’s prostate, just enough to tease, and Crowley moans wantonly, trying to fuck himself down onto Aziraphale’s fingers. The angel hums, feasting on the sight before him—Crowley spread out like a banquet, all for him, flushed and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, hair sex-mussed, and skin covered in love bites and purpling bruises. Aziraphale beams down at his demon, preening at the fact that he’s the reason Crowley’s in this state; beautiful, laid out just for him, on the precipice of orgasm already. His cock is bobbing with each thrust of Aziraphale’s fingers, heavy with blood, leaking precum onto Crowley’s abdomen, taught with impending orgasm.

“There we go, there’s a love,” Aziraphale murmurs sweetly, feeling Crowley tighten around his digits. He adds a third finger, scissoring them, drinking in Crowley’s moans, which are beginning to rise in pitch. “You’re so gorgeous, Crowley. I can’t wait to fuck you properly.” He purses his lips. “I would be lying if I said I haven’t fantasized about this before…”

“_Angel_—” Crowley chokes out, fisting his hands into the bed’s comforter. “Am I—oh, _fuck_—am I living up to your dreams?”

“Oh, Crowley,” the angel says, with a chuckle. “None of my dreams could compare to you falling apart by my hand.”

And he crooks his fingers _just_ right, and just at the _right moment_, and Crowley’s mouth falls open as he comes for the second time that night, hips jerking up as his spend shoots across his belly, painting him in white. Aziraphale can’t help but gaze upon the demon dreamily, wishing, for a moment, to have the image commissioned as a painting. But then, he realizes, he really doesn’t want anyone else seeing Crowley like this. Something possessive flares up in Aziraphale’s chest as Crowley winds down from his crest of pleasure, languid against the bed and panting. Aziraphale gently slides his fingers out of him and Crowley whines like a petulant child.

Aziraphale raises a hand to will away Crowley’s spend, but the demon raises a hand to stop him. He’s out of breath. “Leave it, please?”

And that makes Aziraphale’s cock throb almost painfully, and he nods, hands falling to Crowley’s hips and digging blunt nails into his flesh. Crowley swallows, lust-drunk, gazing up at his angel with sleepy eyes.

“If you’re tired, dear, we can retire for the night,” Aziraphale says softly. “I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

Crowley stares at him like he’s just sprouted two heads—which isn’t entirely impossible, but Aziraphale hasn’t sported that form in ages.

“_Azsssiraphale_,” the demon says, drawing out the sibilants. “If you don’t get your cock inside me this _inssstant_ I’ll _dissscorporate_ us both.”

And what can Aziraphale do, really, then grant his beloved demon’s wishes? Aziraphale grips his hips and yanks him until his ass his flush with Aziraphale’s thighs, and Crowley moans at the angel’s display of strength. He knows he’s going to be covered in fingerprint-shaped bruises and it makes him shiver.

Aziraphale takes his time, sliding into Crowley slowly, allowing him to get used to the intrusion. Crowley squirms, panting, and he feels so _full,_ of Aziraphale’s cock and his love, and he feels it in Aziraphale’s gaze and in the possessive grip on his thighs and in the bitemarks on his collarbones. He feels the angel’s eyes on him, and his _eyes_, thousands of them in the ether, and he’s overwhelmed in such a pleasant way. He reaches for his angel, and Aziraphale grasps a thin wrist, pressing kisses to the blue of Crowley’s pulse point.

“My darling,” the angel murmurs, heart so full of love and adoration that it’s fit to burst. “My demon. No words can express how much I love you.”

“I think I have—ahh---a general idea,” Crowley says, wrapping his legs around Aziraphale’s waist, dragging him closer and deeper inside. “But I would feel even better if you showed me.”

And with that, Aziraphale throws his inhibitions to the wind and thrusts into Crowley, so hard that the bed quakes and it punches a cry out of the demon. He sets a brutal pace, filling each cant of his hips with as much love as he can, Crowley’s whines egging him on even more.

“Ah—angel, _fuck_,” he whimpers, covering his eyes with a lanky arm. “Fuck, I love you so _much_—”

Aziraphale wouldn’t stand for Crowley hiding his eyes, so he reaches and grabs Crowley’s wrist, pinning it to the bed before threading their fingers together. And he sees Crowley’s eyes, pupils swallowing marigold whole, and they’re shining with the threat of tears but he’s _happy_, cheeks pink and kiss-bruised lips pulled into a sated smile. One teardrop slowly runs down his cheek and Aziraphale leans down, kissing it away.

“My—my love,” Crowley manages, voice hoarse with tears and from wanton moans of pleasure. Aziraphale shivers. “I never thought I would have you like this.”

“Me either,” Aziraphale whispers, and he thrusts up, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind Crowley’s eyes, ones that rival the stars he birthed so lovingly, and he whimpers. “Oh, Crowley, I’m so unbelievably _happy_.”

Crowley reaches up, gathering the angel in his arms and crushing their lips together, rolling his hips up to meet the angel’s thrusts, and it’s hitting that spot over and over again and he can’t help the shuddering moans that are being forced out of his lungs. His spend from his previous orgasm is smearing both of their bellies, a marking, a _claim_, and he’s drawing so tight, tipping over the edge, and then—

“_Aziraphale_,” and it’s a sigh laced with so much _love_ that Aziraphale’s heart pangs, and Crowley is drawn tight around him as he finds his release for the third time that night, untouched, becoming lax in Aziraphale’s arms.

And with Crowley drawn tight around him Aziraphale’s pleasure crests as well, and with a final thrust he comes, and the demon moans as he feels Aziraphale’s spend filling him, and he burrows his face into the crook of the angel’s neck, breathing in a lungful of his scent.

They stay like that, wrapped in an embrace, the only sound in the room being their panting breaths. After a few moments, Crowley begins to squirm, oversensitive from the activities of the night. Aziraphale realizes this and gently pulls his softening cock out of Crowley, shushing the demon’s whine with his lips.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, pressing their foreheads together. “I really cannot find the words to describe how much I love you.”

“Mm.” The demon sounds completely sated, allowing Aziraphale to pull him up in his lap. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“Would you like me to pinch you, dear?”

“Absolutely not.” Crowley feels his previous releases drying against his stomach and he grimaces, wriggling in Aziraphale’s lap. “Never thought I’d be covered in my own jizz before in my life.”

“Crowley,” the angel chides, but he’s pressing a kiss to the demon’s nose. “Don’t be vulgar.”

“_Vulgar?_ You just fucked the hell out of me and _I’m_ the one being vulgar?” Crowley’s teasing, of course, apples of his cheeks rising with his grin. He leans in and presses kisses to Aziraphale’s eyelids before he continues, “Shower, then sleep?”

“That sounds lovely, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter! BEATRICE AND VICTORIA'S BACKSTORY!!!!!!!!!!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i hope you all had a merry christmas
> 
> WARNING this is literally 5k words of me talking about my ocs basically. i know a lot of people like them but this chapter is more vic/bea centric so if thats not ur cup of tea...just skip until i get the last chapter out...haha...unless?
> 
> anyway hope u enjoy reading i didnt flesh out everything but i got their general origin stories down
> 
> [follow me on tumblr!](https://chadaziraphale.tumblr.com/)

And so, the rest of their cruise went on without a hitch, even more enjoyable at the fact that the ties of repression they so carefully chained themselves up with have been effectively severed, fraying away into something new, yet welcoming.

It feels like Crowley has finally come _home_, not in the sense of Heaven or Hell, nor his Mayfair flat or Aziraphale’s bookshop, but as in _Aziraphale_ himself. Finally being able to seclude himself in the confines of Aziraphale’s arms felt like coming inside a room full of warmth of a fire—not a raging one, white-hot and licking along walls and burning away wood and paper in its onslaught—but one within a hearth, contained, yet able to fill an entire home with its heat.

Now that he is able, Crowley allows himself to bask in the warmth like a sunning snake, glut himself on it and swallow it whole. It’s like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders; a weight he had carried for millennia, and all he feels is relief. His muscles are no longer drawn taut, his brow no longer furrowed constantly, and his lips (which had never seen much use besides talking and tempting) are now quirked into smiles, kiss-bruised.

They spend the rest of their cruise attached at the hip, almost, hands interlocked so constantly that someone may think they’re sewn together. At first, Crowley was hesitant to show any more displays of public affection, not for judging glares of humans (sod them, honestly) but for the constant niggling fear that Above and Below are not done with them yet; that Crowley could lean in and press a chaste kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek and it will all be over, a bolt struck from the heavens effectively ending them both in one fell swoop.

And Aziraphale senses this, and he is always there with reassurance that Crowley’s fears are not silly, that what they went through would be a lasting trauma on both of them for someone knows how long—and that now they are one, they can work through it together. It made Crowley smile, and squeeze Aziraphale’s hand a bit tighter, and hold him closer.

It’s the last day of the cruise, the ship crawling along the ocean to make its way back to England, and the two entities are perched in chairs on the deck of their cabin, taking in the setting sun and the peachy sky. They’ve popped a bottle of champagne open for themselves and their guests, who were perched in chairs across from them. They politely refuse the offer of champagne, having brought their own drinks; Victoria, a six-pack of stout, one bottle already opened and half-drained, and Beatrice, with a wine glass filled with a dark red liquid Crowley thinks is wine.

Victoria is sat in her chair in such a way that her pose resembles that of something liquid, feet propped up on the table between them, despite the tutting of her wife. She’s gazing at the angel and demon, a wolfish smirk on her face, and she takes a swig of her beer. “So you finally did it, lover boy.”

“Really hope you don’t mean—” Crowley starts, face flushing. Aziraphale coughs, hiding his face behind his champagne flute.

“No, not _that_, you moron. I mean the whole shebang.” She’s gesticulating at them with her free hand. “I mean, yeah, you probably did _it_, seeing that you did a shit job at covering the hickeys on your neck—”

Crowley curses, hand flying to cup his throat. Aziraphale spares him a simpering look before he pulls his collar up a bit higher.

“Victoria, for God’s sake, don’t be so crass,” Beatrice grumbles, then looks embarrassed. “Oh, sorry. Shouldn’t use Her name in vain, should I?”

“By all means, be my guest,” Crowley says, taking a sip of his bubbly.

“Honestly,” Victoria drawls, swirling her bottle of beer around with a lanky wrist, “I’m surprised y’all didn’t explode the moment you kissed.”

“Well, I suppose you have a point about that. Angel, demon,” Aziraphale says, smiling sheepishly. “We have been in each other’s bodies before—both in a figurative and biblical sense—”

Crowley groans, covering his face with his hand. “Angel, for fuck’s sake—”

“I mean, yeah, but also like—the repression.” She takes a drink of beer, swishing it around in her mouth before swallowing. “Kinda like the whole star-crossed lovers deal. Romantic, if you ask me.”

“You seem like the romantic type,” the demon mutters, smirking behind his glass.

“Oh, I am,” Victoria says, fluttering her eyelashes at Beatrice. “Can you vouch for me, doll?”

Beatrice appears flustered, taking a sip of her drink in order not to answer. It looks too _thick_ to be wine, Crowley thinks, too dark a red, and it’s fascinating yet _terrifying_ to him at the same time.

“Dreadfully romantic, dear,” Beatrice says after her drink, setting it down on the table primly. Crowley sees her running her tongue over her teeth until they’re white, almost too white. She flashes them a smile. “It’s been a pleasure sharing this holiday with you, and finally seeing you two together has been so fulfilling. I know it must be hard opening up like this—to near strangers, no less.”

“It’s been a wonderful experience, Beatrice, dear,” Aziraphale says, nodding his head. “I’m afraid if it weren’t for you and your wife’s intervention we might never have gotten this far.”

“I would have eventually,” Crowley mutters, sinking into his chair. Aziraphale gives him an amused look and reaches to grasp the demon’s hand in his, bringing it up to his lips. He hears Victoria snort.

“You were just waiting for the right moment,” the angel assures him, and his smile makes butterflies of all different breeds erupt in Crowley’s stomach. Aziraphale pays him a final glance before redirecting his attention back at the wives, a glint in his eyes. “Now that we’ve, ah, disclosed information about us, how about you tell us a little bit about yourselves? Crowley and I have been very curious, you see.”

Crowley snorts, draining his champagne flute and setting it down on the table. “Yeah. Been dying to know more about you both, actually. Precisely what the _fuck_ you both _are_.”

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale says softly, fruitless.

Beatrice and Victoria exchange glances, the same glance that Crowley’s seen them share a handful of times: like they’re having a whole conversation with their eyes. Victoria’s amber gaze flashes from her wife’s face back to the two entities, her lips pulling into a predatory smile, irises nearly glowing.

“Y’all have heard of _Twilight,_ right?” Victoria asks.

It is a question that Crowley had not been expecting. “_Twilight_,” he deadpans.

“Yeah. _Twilight_. Same star-crossed lovers shit, unhealthy teen relationships, and—the most important aspect—vampires and werewolves?”

“Everyone on the blasted earth knows what _Twilight_ is,” Crowley says, voice clipped. “What does it have to do with you two?”

“Well,” Victoria twangs, stretching out in her chair. “The shit Stephanie Meyer wrote is completely wrong, to begin with.”

Good God, this can’t actually be happening. “Wrong?” Crowley looks at Aziraphale. “_Wrong?_”

“What exactly…do you mean, Victoria?” Aziraphale inquires, but he feels like he already knows the answer.

“Oh, for goodness’s sake,” Beatrice says, rolling her eyes. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she crosses her legs. “You’re both clever, you can certainly figure this whole puzzle out, can’t you?”

Crowley actually _has_ figured out the puzzle, pieces falling into place as soon as Victoria made mention of that accursed book series. “You can’t seriously mean that…”

“She’s a vampire and I’m a werewolf?” Victoria cuts in. “Oh, we’re very _serious_ about this sort of thing, Cranthony.”

Crowley splutters indignantly, frantically glancing back and forth from Aziraphale and the wives. Aziraphale seems pallid, slate grey eyes widened in shock, and he sends a pointed glare in Crowley’s direction.

“I assume this is your side’s doing?”

“Wh—_my_ side?!” Crowley squeaks, incredulous. “We’re just demons! Not other occult entities!”

“Oh, dear,” Beatrice says quietly, face falling. She turns to her wife. “Perhaps we should make ourselves sparse.”

Aziraphale is quick to jump in. “No, no, dears, please don’t think you have to leave! We’re just…taken aback, is all. We’ve never met…other supernatural entities, to say the least.”

“Didn’t know they existed until five seconds ago,” Crowley mutters. Instead of leaning over to pour himself another flute of champagne he flicks a wrist upward and the glass fills itself. The two girls merely blink, as if nothing had happened. Crowley muses that it’s just because they’re used to preternatural occurrences. “They didn’t teach us this stuff Below.”

“I’m sure this is a lot to take in,” Beatrice says, worrying her hands. “But I assure you, it was also hard for us to accept the fact that the world as we know it almost ended, if not for you two.”

“It wasn’t just because of them,” Victoria butts in. “They just gave a pep talk to the Antichrist.”

“Be that as it may, they were still a contributing factor,” Beatrice says primly. She beams at the angel and demon. “In fact, we should be very grateful for the cock-up, shouldn’t we?”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale says, pursing his lips.

Silence falls between the four, and they all fill it by taking sips of their drinks. Crowley eyes Beatrice’s glass, hoping it’s not what he assumes it is—but given the revelation of their identities, it might as well be. He knows it shouldn’t affect him the way it is (demon, after all. Maybe not one of the bloodthirsty ones, but _demon_ nonetheless) but it’s just because she looks so _human_, as far as he can tell.

“So, like,” Crowley croaks. “D’you have any…distinguishing factors? Like…attributes?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chides. “That may be too personal of a question.”

“What? I showed Victoria my eyes the first day we met, it’s only fair,” the demon retorts.

“It’s natural to be curious, dears. Don’t fret about it one bit,” Beatrice assures, smiling with too-white teeth.

“Well, you’ve obviously seen _my_ eyes,” Victoria starts, pointing to her face, indicating amber irises. She then flexes her fingers, too-sharp nails scraping against her palms. “I’ve stopped trying to keep these things short, but I do file them down every other day.” She bares her teeth, a wolfish grin. She runs her tongue over her incisors, and they’re sharper than average. “These usually stay in check until”—she gesticulates with her hand dismissively—“_that time of the month_, you know.” She then tucks sandy-blonde locks of hair behind her ears, which Crowley notices have gained a slight point to them. “Same with these.”

“That time of the month,” the ethereal and occult entities deadpan.

“Y’know. Like a period but instead of bleeding out I turn into a hulking monster. Which I guess is the same thing.” She taps her chin in contemplation. “It’s getting kind of close, actually. Good thing this trip is almost over, right, doll?”

Beatrice pays her wife an exasperated glare. “Dear, you’re not a _monster_. If anything, you’re just a big fluffball.” She rests her chin on her hands, smiling reverently. “You’re very endearing.”

Victoria’s eyes shoot to the sky, cheeks flushing. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“I’ll say whatever I damn well please, we’ve been together for nearly twenty years, and married for five,” Beatrice replies curtly. She turns her attention back to Aziraphale and Crowley, whose eyebrows are in danger of rising off their heads entirely.

Smiling sympathetically, she sets out to explain her characteristics. “Well, unlike my lovely wife here, I try to hide my eyes as best as I can.” She widens them considerably, reaching up to touch them with a finger. Crowley cringes, squirming in his seat. His discomfort is momentarily quelled when Beatrice’s fingers pull back, two dark contacts perched on their pads. Without said contacts, Aziraphale and Crowley are met with a pair of red eyes, the color of rubies, freshly spilt blood. “I suppose these would be similar to your glasses, Crowley?”

The demon swallows. “Er. Yeah, I s’pose. Can’t really go walking around with snake eyes, can I?”

“As I with red ones.” Beatrice nods, then turns to her wife. “Lovely, be a lamb and get my contact case out of my bag for me?”

“Yes, dear,” Victoria says flatly, but hands her wife her contact case nonetheless.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking these out for a bit,” Beatrice murmurs, gently putting her contacts in the case before snapping it shut. She squeezes her eyes shut, before blinking a few times. “Sometimes they get annoying.”

“Oh, you’re perfectly fine. It must be hard, having to hide them all the time.” Aziraphale gives her a sympathetic smile. “I do think they’re lovely.” He turns his smile to Crowley. “As are yours, my dear.”

Crowley mutters something about the angel being a sap and shrinks in on himself. Victoria cocks up a brow, smirking.

“You both are so _adorable_, I can’t stand it,” Beatrice says, cupping her face with her hands.

“We’re six-thousand-year old ethereal and occult entities, we’re not _adorable_,” Crowley hisses, but there’s not really any venom behind the words simply because he can’t find it in him to snap at Beatrice (or Victoria, but he’s sharper with her; she doesn’t seem to care) because he admires the two of them for having the courage to reveal their own supernatural sides.

“Anyway,” Crowley continues, eager to change the subject, but afraid of the answer awaiting him. He glances at the glass on the table, half-full of thick, red liquid that he _thinks_ he knows what it is but is also _afraid_ of knowing what it is. “So. Er. Vampire, right?”

“Indeed,” Beatrice says, but she sounds hesitant. “I’m afraid I can’t shapeshift into a bat like in the stories, nor do I sparkle in the sunlight. However! I can enjoy a sunny day; I just have to reapply sunscreen often. I _love_ garlic, I can see my reflection in mirrors, and I don’t need to be invited into someone’s home.” She taps her chin. “Not like I’d barge my way into someone’s home, though. Terribly rude, that would be.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange glances before their eyes fall onto the same thing: the glass of whatever the fuck Beatrice is drinking on the table. She notices them gawking and she sighs, almost dramatically.

“And _yes_, it’s blood.”

“Oh, Lord,” Aziraphale squeaks.

“Where the hell do you get it?” Crowley quips, genuinely curious but terrified at the possible answer.

Beatrice appears sheepish, twiddling her thumbs, suddenly very shy. “Er, well—it’s not what you think! I managed to make a deal with a blood bank in London a couple of years ago, right when we moved to England. Couldn’t very well travel across the sea with a surplus of blood bags from the Red Cross, you see.” She purses her lips, scratching her cheek with a buffed nail. “It’s easier than my…_previous methods_, but less satisfying.”

_Jesus fucking Christ_. “Previous methods?” Aziraphale prompts, voice cracking.

Victoria snorts. “Doll, you can just say you were a vigilante. No one’s gonna judge you, least of all these two.”

“I wasn’t _necessarily_ a vigilante,” Beatrice argues, sniffing. “It’s just irritating to me how incompetent America’s penal system is sometimes.”

Crowley feels like he’s going insane. “_Vigilante?_”

Beatrice is twirling a coil of black hair around her finger, ruby eyes darting all over the place. She barks a nervous laugh. “Ha, well, erm. Back when the internet was just starting to kick off and they started to, um, post sex offender registries online, I would peruse the listings in my current area occasionally.” She plucks her glass up and begins to swirl the liquid in it, coating the sides in red—a nervous tic. However, despite her anxieties, her lips twitch into a smile, teeth too white and canines too _sharp_. “I do so hate to see vulnerable people being hurt or taken advantage of, so to speak, and seeing their abusers running free with just a slap on the wrist and being put on a list no one reads just…_irks_ me.”

Crowley could be a master artist with all the conclusions he’s been drawing today. Aziraphale doesn’t seem as fazed as the demon thought he would be; in fact, he seems almost _enthralled_.

Beatrice continues to whorl the liquid in the glass with a lank wrist, and before taking a contemplative sip, she murmurs, “You would be surprised at how _delicious_ a rapist’s or pedophile’s blood is.”

Victoria’s grinning at Beatrice like a proud wife, amber eyes twinkling. Meanwhile, Aziraphale and Crowley are struck speechless, mouths hanging open and genuinely at a loss of words. Crowley is filing through possible responses to Beatrice’s plight in his head before he blurts out, “I can respect that.”

“It’s nothing I’m really proud of,” the vampire confesses, but a poignant smile stretches her lips. “But it’s what I had to do until I found a better method.” The smile turns into grimace. “Even though America’s justice system is still very corrupt.”

“Eh, they’ll get their just desserts in Hell,” Victoria says, patting her wife’s arm in reassurance. She directs her amber gaze at Crowley. “Right?”

Crowley hums, leaning over to pluck his champagne flute up and takes a swig. He swishes the liquid around in his mouth in contemplation; he has a vague recollection of an influx of sex offenders being filed into the halls of Hell in the late 80s and early 90s, cursed to wander aimlessly amongst the masses. It seems he’s found the reason for it.

“What was it that you said one time, angel,” the demon drawls, tilting his head toward Aziraphale, “something like…a moral argument. Something like that.”

“I don’t recall,” Aziraphale murmurs, draining the rest of his drink.

“Somethin’ about guns, I think.” Crowley shakes his head. “Anyway.” He scrutinizes the two girls, cogs working through the slight buzz in his head. He’s not sure if it’s entirely the alcohol’s fault or if it’s because his brain is struggling to process the news he just learned. “You said the 80s and 90s, right? How _old_ are you two, exactly?”

“Now, now, it’s rude to ask a lady her age,” Victoria tuts, taking a swig of beer. She’s being flippant, as is her wont, Crowley decides. She gives her wife a withering look. “You or me first, doll?”

“Well, since you are the oldest, I only think it’s fair,” Beatrice replies, nodding.

“Alright.” Victoria drains her beer and nearly slams down her bottle of beer on the table, making Crowley flinch. She grabs another bottle and flicks the cap off with her thumb, taking another gulp before saying, “Y’all have heard of the Salem witch trials, right?” And before anyone could even reply, she continues, “Actually, that’s a rhetorical question, don’t answer that.

“So,” Victoria starts. “I was born in the quaint little town that was once known as Salem, Massachusetts, in around…the 1670s, I think. Can’t really recall the exact year, memory’s kinda fuzzy.” She scratches the back of her neck before carrying on. “Typical settler girl growing up, helping my Ma around the house, stuff like that. Pop was a blacksmith, I think, but I don’t really remember seeing him much.

“When I hit seventeen, that’s when the whole witch hysteria started. Where they actual witches? I’m dunno. All I know is that…it was _scary_.” Her voice is small, and her hands are clenched into fists, skin drawn taught over bony knuckles. Beatrice pays her a sympathetic glance, reaching over to rub soothing circles on her wife’s knee with her thumb. “Like…I was always rambunctious as a kid. Y’know, kinda like how I am now. But my Ma wasn’t having it. She didn’t want me to step a toe out of line just in case anything was to…_happen_.” Despite the heavy atmosphere that’s fallen, Victoria smirks. “But I guess it didn’t really matter in the end.

“I was a late bloomer compared to the other girls in town, and I always stood out. Taller than average, lanky, brash. All of ’em hit puberty in their tweens. I didn’t hit it until I was seventeen. That’s when it all started.

“I’m sure y’all are familiar with how puberty works, the birds and the bees, yada yada, anyway,” Victoria says, gesturing flippantly with her free hand. “It didn’t happen like it was supposed to with me.

“One day I woke up and it’s like something shifted inside of me. I was just…_angry_. For no reason. I mean, I was kinda irritated at the whole witch trial scenario and how I had to walk on eggshells so I wouldn’t get burned at the stake or hanged, but this was a different anger. It was _deep_, like it was in the marrow of my bones and sewn into the sinew of my muscles.”

“Very poetic, lovey,” Beatrice says softly, gazing at her wife in awe.

Victoria rolls her eyes affectionately and continues. “When I woke up I tried to shove away the anger before I walked into the kitchen to say good morning to my Ma. And when she turned to me her smile twisted and she just…_screamed_. She turned pale and she fell and scrambled away from me into the corner of our house. I didn’t know what was wrong, but she was screaming so loud that our neighbors heard, and when they came and checked in on us—well, their reactions weren’t any better.” Her lips curl into a near snarl.

“What were their reactions, dear?” Aziraphale asks gently, expression soft and concerned.

“Typical reactions of Protestants in the 1600s. Saw my eyes, teeth, ears, and claws and immediately started shouting _demon_ and _witch_ at my face.” She shrugs, glancing pointedly at Crowley. “Not that being a demon is necessarily a bad thing.”

Crowley makes some noncommittal sound, gesturing for her to continue.

“Moving on, they immediately took me in, throwing me in a jail cell and chaining me up with silver shackles. Which, mind you, is the only thing that can actually hurt the both of us.” Victoria holds up her left hand, flexing spindly fingers. The light from the setting sun catches the gold of her wedding band. “No silver bands for me and my wife.” Her hand flops down and she takes a considerable gulp of beer. “The silver didn’t kill me, but _goddamn_, it hurt. It was like a branding iron around my wrists. And it just made me _angrier_.” Crowley can see Victoria’s jaw clenching.

“They didn’t even give me a trial; the evidence was already there. When night fell, they dragged me to the pyre and tied me up. Whole village was there with torches, chanting _burn the witch_, typical bullshit. And at this point I was fucking _livid_. I looked to the sky to plead to God, any deity willing to listen—and I saw the moon, the fullest I’d seen it in my life, hanging in the sky, almost _mockingly_.

“My ears started to ring. My vision was starting to turn red, going in and out. I was full of pure, unadulterated _rage_. This is where my memory gets fuzzy, so all I really recall is blacking out and waking up in the middle of a forest, naked and covered in blood that wasn’t my own.”

She falls silent, allowing everyone to digest her story. She’s glancing out at the sunset, beer bottle touching her lips, a claw tapping against the dark glass.

“Oh, dear. That must have been traumatizing to go through,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I’m so very sorry you had to experience that. It’s very brave of you to share your story with us.”

Victoria merely shrugs, nonchalant, as if she never told them her story in the first place. “’S not a big deal. I just like hearing myself talk.” She drags her hands through her hair, claws snagging on tangles, before saying, “Long story short, I’m like…at least three hundred and fifty years old, give or take. I kept growing until I reached twenty-five and then I just stopped. I don’t know how long I’ve got to live, but I guess I’ll be on this stupid planet for a while.” Her neck lolls as she stares at her wife expectantly. “Your turn, babe.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Beatrice frets. “I’m not nearly as interesting as you are, honey.”

“I mean,” Crowley says. “You’re a vampire. That’s pretty interesting in of itself, I think.”

She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, sans fangs. “Well, to start off, I’m not nearly as old as Victoria. Not that being old is a bad thing, sweetheart!” she says quickly, fluttering her hands. “It’s just that…well, I believe I was born sometime in the early 60s in America, right when that whole nasty deal with segregation was abolished. I mean, not that it made any immediate difference, but—well, that’s a whole can of worms I don’t want to open right now. My memory of before I was, erm, changed, is very fuzzy, so I can’t recall much.

I grew up in San Francisco. My family was a well-off, and I had a decent childhood, from what I can recall. We were well-off enough that my parents had me homeschooled. I don’t really remember much about my parents, but from what I do, they were a bit…suffocating, to say the least.” She frowns. “I don’t think I was allowed to play outside with the neighborhood kids a lot. I vaguely remember my mother saying it was for my own safety. It was the 60s, after all—racism was still alive and kicking, even in California.” She taps her chin in contemplation. “The Black Panther Party formed not long after I was born, come to think.

“Anyway! Long story short, I was a very sheltered child, so when I finally reached adulthood, I was very eager to get out on my own and see the world. I got my GED in the late 70s and went off to college. At first, I had trouble adjusting being on my own, but I did happen to make some new friends during my undergrad years, so it made it bearable.

“I was very duteous in my studies, so my main hang-out spot was the library. When my schedule was free, you could bet that I would be in the library. I _love_ being surrounded by books, you see.”

“Oh, I completely agree with you. It’s so very calming, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says, beaming.

Beatrice nods enthusiastically. “Yes! You understand. I would always be in the library, either studying or just reading for fun.

“So, flash forward to my senior year, in the heat of finals week. I was basically living at the library now. I was very familiar with one of the librarians at this point, and she sent me back to my apartment because, according to her, I looked ‘dead on my feet’.” Beatrice rolls her ruby eyes, exasperated. “Once I get into the swing of things, I find I can’t stop until I collapse, so to speak. But this is where things take a twist.”

Beatrice drains her glass of blood and gently sets the glass on the table before continuing. “This is where things get rather fuzzy, so I’ll try to recall as much as I can. I was walking back to my apartment on campus. It was late at night, and I _know_ I should have been more careful, looking back on it—I’m always a bit more trusting of people than I should be, and it will probably be my downfall—anyway.

“When I was walking, I felt…_something_. Like something was following me—not a person, but a _thing_.” She shudders. “And, well, this might have been a stupid move, but I took a shortcut down an alleyway, wondering if I speed-walked enough whatever was following me would get tired and go away, but…it just got closer. I was terrified that I was about to get assaulted, physically or sexually or whatnot, so I slatted my keys through my fist and hyped myself up for a fight.

“Before I could even turn around, something grabbed me and shoved me against a wall, and there was a burning _pain_ in my neck, and—well, that’s all I can really recall. And I guess someone found me, because when I came to I was in the student health building on a bed, woozy, with two puncture marks on my neck.” Beatrice crosses her legs and folds her hands on her lap, regarding Aziraphale and Crowley with a sheepish smile. “So, to answer your question, I was around twenty-one or twenty-two when I was turned, and now I’m probably in my early 60s. Not long after I turned was when I started to check the registries.”

“And then we met…when was it? NYC, New Year’s Eve, ’99?” Victoria muses.

“Oh, yes,” Beatrice says, nodding. “It’s rather odd, but I could sense Victoria in the huge crowd, and we eventually gravitated towards each other. She asked if I wanted a drink, and, well…that’s all she wrote!”

In response to all of this, Crowley merely lifts his champagne flute in the air; an offer for a toast. “You know what, I’ll drink to all of this.”

“I find I agree,” Aziraphale says, holding his glass up, as well. He beams at Crowley, which makes the demon’s stomach do some very impressive flips a gymnast would be jealous of, before turning to the two girls. “A toast to us supernatural entities.”

Their glasses clink and they drink to themselves, and to their relationships, and to their holiday, and everything in between. The rest of their evening runs without a hitch, conversations flowing like a river carving through rock. Eventually when night falls, the two wives begin to gather their things to return to their cabin for the night.

“We’ll definitely need to keep in touch after this, my dears,” Aziraphale says, puttering behind Beatrice and Victoria as they approach the door. “You’ll have to come over to my bookshop sometime for tea.”

“Oh, that sounds marvelous, Aziraphale! I’d very much like to see your collection.” Beatrice grins at him, then turns to her wife. “What do you think, sweetheart?”

“Sounds good, doll,” Victoria says. “Gotta make sure these two stick together, don’t we?”

“Oh, definitely.” Beatrice nods, and returns her attention back to the angel and demon. “It’s been wonderful, friends. You’ve made this vacation very memorable. And I’m very glad you’re finally boyfriends, by the way.”

Aziraphale and Crowley both make a choked noise, faces flushing a brilliant crimson. Crowley shoves his sunglasses back up his nose and mutters, “That’s such a _human_ term.”

“What the hell else are you gonna call him? _Husband?_ I don’t see you making an honest angel out of him,” Victoria quips, smirking.

Crowley opens his mouth, about to snap something, but Beatrice cuts him off. “Victoria, there’s no need to be so mean to the poor thing.” With a final beam at the angel and demon, she says, “We’ll be out of your hair now. Goodnight, dears!”

The wives see themselves out, the cabin’s door latching quietly behind them. Crowley’s shoulders sag and he lets out a sigh, sliding off his glasses and dragging his hands through his hair. Aziraphale is hovering next to him, and hesitantly, a pair of perfectly manicured hands reaches up to frame the demon’s face, turning his attention to the angel in front of him.

“That was a lot to take in,” Crowley murmurs. He felt a bit untethered, but Aziraphale’s touch was grounding him, bringing him back to earth. He reaches up to drape his hands over the angel’s.

“I agree, but you were right on the money about the two of them not being human,” Aziraphale says. He smiles and presses a kiss to the demon’s nose. “My clever demon.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, scrunching up his nose. “Anyone could have figured it out.”

“I had an inkling, but I wasn’t sure about it,” the angel says. His hands slide from Crowley’s cheeks down to cup his neck, and the demon shivers. Grinning, Aziraphale leans up to press his lips against Crowley’s, and he sighs against his mouth, hands rising from his sides to frame Aziraphale’s face.

When they pull away after a few moments, Aziraphale whispers against Crowley’s lips, “I had a really lovely holiday with you, darling.”

“Mm. Me too,” Crowley says softly, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead. “Glad I answered that stupid telemarketer.”

“I second that.” Aziraphale grins up at Crowley, eyes crinkling. “Come to bed?”

“Absolutely.”


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's all she wrote, folks  
thank you all so much for every lovely comment and kudos you've left! i've really enjoyed writing this story and i hope you have enjoyed reading it!  
i have some other stories planned that i hope to write in the near future so stay tuned <3  
[as always, feel free to follow me on tumblr!](https://chadaziraphale.tumblr.com/)

Their routine doesn’t really change once they settle back down. It’s mostly the same, but there’s no more tension that thrums through a shared room like electricity down a wire; no more longing glances when the other isn’t looking. They’re still nearly attached at the hip, even a year after their holiday and subsequent bumbling of confessions, and Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way. They do have six millennia to make up for, after all.

The trysts to restaurants don’t cease, neither do their trots through St. James’s Park, pointing out undercover human agents and feeding the ducks (Crowley was recently informed that bread is not good for waterfowl, so he adjusts their meal plans accordingly). This time, there is no calculated distance between the entities, having been closed by one hand clasped in another, a jigsaw puzzle solved with its final piece.

In fact, the angel and demon are in the park now, perched on their regular bench, soaking in the pleasant rays of the sun on a clear day in London. The space that once would have split them in half is closed completely, Aziraphale leaning against Crowley’s shoulder, their fingers laced together. With his free hand, he tosses a handful of feed to the ducks, who peck it off the ground greedily. A mallard is eyeing the two and lets out a curious quack.

“I think he’s confused,” Crowley says.

“About what?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley gestures between the two of them. “Us.”

“I guess he’s so used to seeing us sitting apart,” the angel muses, tossing another palmful of feed in order to deter a fight between two of the ducks. The curious mallard quacks at them again before waddling to the pile of food, pecking at the cracked corn.

“I feel like I’ll never get used to it,” Crowley admits, voice soft. Even though it’s been over a year, it feels like it’s just been a day, passing in the blink of an eye. His skin still thrums whenever it’s in contact with Aziraphale’s, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the whole angel/demon dynamic, or if it’s just because he’s still adapting to it all.

Aziraphale shifts to gaze upon Crowley, the steely-blue depths of his eyes filled with pure, unadulterated _love_. It makes Crowley’s stupid heart palpitate. “I feel the same way, darling. But, we have the rest of eternity to get used to it, and we’ll get used to it together.”

Crowley hums, and he can’t help leaning down and pressing a kiss to the angel’s lips. Aziraphale lets out a soft sigh against the demon’s mouth, and Crowley feels the electric thrum underneath his skin at the contact. This is another thing he’s still not accustomed to—the privilege of touching Aziraphale, of kissing him, swallowing his soft sighs whole. Sometimes he finds himself getting lost in it, almost like he enters a hazy state, and sometimes when he’ll come through, he’ll find himself sitting on the angel’s lap.

He manages to catch himself before they get fined for public indecency. Crowley pulls away from Aziraphale’s lips with a shuddering gasp, flush creeping down his neck, glasses askew, and his auburn locks—which he’s grown out a bit after their holiday, falling in tendrils past his chin—has become mussed. Aziraphale looks pleased with himself, slightly rumpled, apples of his cheeks tinged pink.

“Someone help me,” is all Crowley manages to eke out.

They’re allowed to gaze at each other for a few more seconds before the ducks begin to quack for more. Rolling his eyes, Crowley grabs a handful of feed and tosses it aside, muttering, “Bloody voyeurs, the lot of you.”

Aziraphale giggles, and the sound is like the pealing of church bells. He squeezes his hand around Crowley’s arm, snuggling up to him impossibly closer. The demon slings an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder and buries his face into candy-floss hair, breathing in the angel’s bookish scent. Kissing Aziraphale can make him float away sometimes, and he needs to ground himself.

Aziraphale lets out a surprised purr, and Crowley looks down at him. “What is it, angel?”

“Someone’s getting proposed to over there,” the angel says, nodding towards a couple a ways away—two human men, one of them already down on one knee, velvet box propped in hand. The one on his knee is gazing at his significant other with such a reverence that it might rival Crowley’s own for Aziraphale, and it makes the demon’s heart pang hard very suddenly, and his mouth becomes as dry as a desert.

The man gingerly opens the velvet box, and in it is nestled a silver band, adorned with diamonds.

_The fucking ring_, is the only thought that buzzes in Crowley’s head.

It’s not like he _forgot_ its existence completely; he was always vaguely aware of its presence, still safely tucked away in the pocket dimension, where it will rest until the right moment comes.

The thing is, Crowley thinks, is that the right moment may _never_ come. Marriage is a human ritual; a binding, _’til death do us part_, ad nauseum. Clichés aside, Crowley isn’t even sure how Aziraphale would feel about it. Just because Aziraphale enjoys love in all varieties doesn’t necessarily mean he would be interested in partaking in said human tradition himself.

_Perhaps I’ll get the courage to pop the question soon?_

The words still knock the breath out of Crowley. Aziraphale could have just said it to strengthen their whole guise, back on their holiday, but it had been uttered so earnestly that it still makes Crowley screech to a halt whenever the echoic memory blasts in his head.

Aziraphale’s still taking in the scene before them, beaming. Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if his halo started to peak out behind his head. The man being proposed to is covering his mouth with his hands, and he appears to be nodding, and the other on his knees grasps his partner’s hand with his to slide the ring onto his finger. He pushes himself off his knees to gather his fiancé into a tight embrace, actually twirling him around, expression alight.

“That’s so lovely,” Aziraphale says, and lets out a sigh so full of adoration that Crowley must sink his teeth into his bottom lip from making a high-pitched mewling sound. The angel lifts up his hand and flicks a finger downward—dragging power from Heaven, an unlimited pool of it now that they’re acting like he doesn’t exist—and Crowley feels a shift in the atmosphere as an angelic miracle is put in place. He shoots a curious glance at Aziraphale, and the angel grins. “Just a little blessing for a long and happy marriage, in life and in death.” He pauses, pursing his lips. “And maybe just a little more pounds in their bank account for an extravagant wedding if that’s what they desire.”

“You old sop,” is all Crowley can say, but he finds himself smiling, too.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale replies, resuming his feeding of the ducks, whose population surrounding them has increased significantly. “Oh, dear.”

Crowley barks a laugh. “Spoiled lot, all of you.”

When they retire from the park, Crowley excuses himself to run back to his flat to check on his plants. He’s been lurking around the bookshop for a few days; there’s no doubt that his foliage would need misting and a stern-talking-to.

That’s not the only reason he makes himself sparse, however.

He enters his flat and locks the door shut with an upwards flick of his wrist, and he immediately starts pacing around his space, a snake back in the confines of its den. On rare occasions Aziraphale will spend the night here, so Crowley adjusted his living space accordingly; having more comfortable seating options available, for one thing.

Sometimes, Aziraphale is still hesitant to enter Crowley’s domain, and the demon is understanding—the whole fear of being found by your former employers and promptly disposed of can really take a toll on someone. But, Aziraphale said once, he does enjoy Crowley’s indoor greenhouse, so he’ll invite himself over occasionally, spending the night as well.

They _really_ broke in Crowley’s bed that one time.

Flushing at the memory, Crowley shakes his head and throws himself into a position one might call sitting into his throne, propping his lanky legs up onto the chunk of obsidian-colored rock one might call a desk. He reaches forward with a hand, pinching his thumb and forefinger together, dragging them slowly through the air, as if he were dragging down a zipper. In this case, the zipper was a metaphor, and an opening to the pocket dimension gaped open almost hungrily. Sticking his tongue out, he reaches inside and rummages around until he finds it.

Of course, it’s still in the same state as it was when he first bought it a year ago, because it has no other choice in the matter. He balances the ring in his palm, taking in its weight, and he reaches to zip up the pocket dimension lest something undesirable crawls out of it.

When he first bought it, Crowley was forever convinced that it would never see use, that he and Aziraphale would never be together in the sense that they are now. He’s still convinced that it was a waste of miracled-up money, that he’ll never gather the courage to drop to his knees and actually ask the _blessed_ question.

Crowley heaves a heavy sigh, setting the ring down on the desk gingerly before his phone finds its way into his hand, unlocked and ready for him to scroll through his message history and find that one number he needed.

Of course, the angel and demon kept their promise to keep in contact with them after their holiday. Crowley would occasionally text Victoria updates about him and Aziraphale, or interesting plant facts, and in turn she’ll send him updates about her and her wife, and stupid memes she finds on the internet that only a person with a _very_ specific sense of humor could understand.

He typed out the message with trembling fingers, holding his breath.

_so…you remember the cruise, right_

He bites his bottom lip and lays the phone facedown on his desk, waiting for a reply. It comes in a little under a minute.

_Vic_ 🐺: _why wouldn’t i??_

Yeah, that was probably a stupid question to ask. Crowley heaves a sigh, composing another message.

_the day you went to the cathedral with aziraphale i ended up going to a market and i found something and i really don’t know what to do about it_

Crowley forces himself to stare at the speech bubble that pops up as Victoria types her response. It pops up, then down, then up again, until her message appears.

_Vic_ 🐺: _well are you gonna tell me or am i gonna have to perform some sherlock holmes shit to figure it out myself_

Well, here he goes. He can’t really back out of it now. He does throw himself out of his chair and pace around his office before he snatches his phone back up and types his response so hard his screen cracks. Hissing, Crowley fixes it just as quickly.

_I bought. a ring._

Good God, he’s dug his own grave.

_Vic_ 🐺: _oh? on god?_

_Vic_ 🐺: _SEND ME A PIC_

Of _course_ she would want to see it. Muttering curses under his breath, Crowley flexes his photography skills and his phone camera’s specs to shoot a very flattering picture of the ring, its gems glittering slightly in the soft light in the office. He sends the picture off.

_Vic_ 🐺: _oh wow_

_Vic_ 🐺: _i think it suits you_

Crowley hesitates for a moment before replying.

_i…didn’t buy it for me._

The bubble pops up. And down. And up again. Multiple times, actually. And then—

_Vic_ 🐺: _WH_

_Vic_ 🐺: _FOR WHO???_

A pause.

_Vic_ 🐺: _AZIRAPHALE?_

Crowley groans, leaning against his desk and dropping his head into his hands. He takes great consideration into his response, trying to figure out how to put it into words, but decides to throw caution to the wind because he knows she’s going to freak out either way.

_i want to ask him to marry me_.

It almost burns his thumbs typing it out, and he doesn’t even know how he’ll be able to say it out loud, on his knees, gazing upon his angel with said ring in his hand, a proposition.

He’s zoned out until multiple pings on his phone alert him to Victoria responses.

_Vic_ 🐺: _oh _

_Vic_ 🐺: _my_

_Vic_ 🐺: _FUCKING_

_Vic_ 🐺: _GOD_

_Vic_ 🐺: _BRUUUUUUUUH_

_Vic_ 🐺: _are me and bea invited to the wedding_

Crowley rolls his eyes, pulling off his glasses before replying.

_i mean. If there is one, then sure_

_but I don’t even know if he’ll say yes_

Her reply is almost immediate.

_Vic_ 🐺: _youre more hopeless than i thought_

_Vic_ 🐺: _we’ve BEEN THROUGH THIS LOVER BOY_

_Vic_ 🐺: _that angel is in love with you why Wouldn’t he want to marry you_

Crowley’s throat feels like it’s full of cotton.

_I don’t know…………..he probably thinks we wouldn’t need to be married_

_Like…it’s for humans essentially_

_Not for an angel and a demon_

_Vic_ 🐺: _Breaking News: Local Vampire And Werewolf Aren’t Human And Are Married, Sources Say_

_Vic_ 🐺: _like………if it’s for me and bea then it’s for you and aziraphale_

_Vic_ 🐺: _and I promise you, from the bottom of my black little heart, that aziraphale would love to marry you_

_Vic_ 🐺: _would u like to be Anthony Crowley-Fell or would you want him to be Aziraphale Fell-Crowley_

Crowley would not admit to anyone but himself the absolute ball of warmth that exploded in his lower belly at the thought of taking Aziraphale’s (albeit fake) surname. He sucks in a breath, face flushing a brilliant crimson that rivals his flaming hair, before composing a response.

_I don’t know how I would even ask him tbh_

_Vic_ 🐺: _getting on your knees is a good start_

_Vic_ 🐺: _wait_

_Vic_ 🐺: _not like THAT_

_Vic_ 🐺: _well……….._ 😏

_Vic_ 🐺: _im not finishing that thought_

Crowley snorts. His fingers work to compile his next message.

_I mean like…………. How would I ask him. should it be dramatic_

_Vic_ 🐺: _you seem very dramatic_

_Vic_ 🐺: _I feel like he’d like something simple_

_Vic_ 🐺: _like nothing in public obviously_

_Vic_ 🐺: _u wanna know how bea asked me?_

Crowley hums, a bit surprised that it wasn’t Victoria who popped the question. He sends an affirmation.

_Vic_ 🐺: _it wasnt even a big deal_

_Vic_ 🐺: _we were in bed the night same sex marriage was legalized in america when we still lived there_

_Vic_ 🐺: _and like…i was in the same boat as you, like we’re not human and we might be immortal, so there’s really no point to marriage for us really_

_Vic_ 🐺: _but there was still a part of me that was like…hm. I would make an excellent trophy wife_

_Vic_ 🐺: _and then __bea was like (posh accent) darling be a lamb and check under your pillow for me I left you a gift_

_Vic_ 🐺: _so i reached under the pillow and what did you know, it was a ring_

_Vic_ 🐺: _and __her exact words were “since we’ve been recognized as human enough to get married by a council mainly comprised of heterosexuals, would you do me the honor of being my wife?”_

_Vic_ 🐺: _and yeah_

Crowley stares at his phone screen for a considerable amount of time, gears cranking in his head. There was an idea; hiding the ring out of sight, but where it’s still easy enough to find. He could hide it in a glass of champagne at the Ritz, or on a thin, crunchy breadstick at one of the Italian restaurants that Aziraphale fancies. Of course, there’s always a possibility that Aziraphale would completely glance over the ring for the food, and—a horrible thought, really—end up _swallowing_ the ring whole. Crowley scowls, covering his face with his hands.

_might steal the ring under the pillow idea tbh_

_Vic_ 🐺: _go ahead_

_Vic_ 🐺: _let me know how it goes. Like text me. im sure aziraphales gonna call up bea immediately and gush about it since theyre like BFFs now_

_Vic_ 🐺: _surprised __they dont handwrite letters to each other with a quill and ink on parchment paper and seal it with wax before sending it off via carrier pigeon_

He snorts, thumbs working out a reply

_Would not be surprised if they started tbh_

_Vic_ 🐺: _good luck my guy_

_Vic_ 🐺: _you can do it_

_Vic_ 🐺: _I gotta __skedaddle because im goin to lunch with doll and she gets annoyed when im on my phone at the table _🙄

Crowley takes a deep breath. He can’t go back now. His plans have been spoken, put in the air, unable to be taken back. He swallows as he composes a reply, hands trembling slightly.

_okokokokok. i can do this I think_

_ill do it tomorrow_

_Vic_ 🐺: _eager to get it over with I see_

_Vic_ 🐺: _understandable_

_Vic_ 🐺: _ok dude I really gotta go but you got this. Youre a demon. You can propose to an angel no problem_

_Vic_ 🐺: _ttyl _✌️

The message bubble stops. Crowley stares at the screen until it goes to sleep.

His eyes crawl to the ring, the ruby red of the gem a stark contrast to the black of his desk. The snakes are glittering even though there’s no apparent light source bringing them to life, and it’s almost as if they’re winking at him, conspiring.

Squaring his shoulders, Crowley stalks over to his desk and snatches the ring up, glaring at it in his palm.

Crowley is a demon. He is the Serpent of Eden, temptation personified, and has quite literally faced the end of the world and Satan himself with nothing to defend him except for a fucking tire iron. He drove through a literal wall of fire on the M25 and kept the Bentley together by sheer willpower and imagination. He faced down angels in Heaven behind a mask and practiced the highest level of self-control he could muster to not lunge forward and claw the Archangel-fucking-Gabriel’s eyes out.

“It’s not that fucking hard, you twit,” he tells himself. “Get on one knee. Hold the ring out. Ask the question.”

He knows he’s making a bigger deal out of this than it really is, but he’s only doing it to distract himself from what he’s really worried about: the possibility of rejection.

Rejection does not come.

Crowley’s laying in his bed, cocooned in a sheath of blankets, tottering on the edge of consciousness and sleep. Aziraphale had insisted he get rid of the black-out curtains, so he feels the morning light bleeding in through the cracked drapes and the slants of the blinds, warming him to his core. He sighs, turning around sluggishly to throw an arm over the angel, only to find no angel at all.

The demon frowns, eyelids fluttering open slowly, pupils slitting to adjust to the sunlight. He’s met with an empty space next to him, still slightly warm from its former inhabitant, meaning he hasn’t been gone that long. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Crowley lets out a jaw-cracking yawn before flinging himself out of bed. He’s filled with a delicious ache from the night’s activities, and he catches a quick glance at himself in the mirror—hair disheveled, neck dotted in love bites and bruises, dressed in only his boxers, and he flushes considerably. He scrambles on the floor for a T-shirt to fling over himself to give the appearance of decency, and decides to set out in his flat to find his angel.

Crowley assumes Aziraphale is in the kitchen, puttering about, making his morning tea and coffee for Crowley. He might be prepping breakfast, the demon thinks, and the thought of the angel bustling around the kitchen making a meal for the two of them makes him smile. Crowley’s not one for eating whole meals—he prefers to snack—but there’s something about food lovingly prepared by Aziraphale that he wouldn’t be able to reject.

Yet, Crowley doesn’t find Aziraphale in the kitchen. He should have expected it, seeing that the smell of freshly brewed tea and coffee wasn’t permeating the air. Crowley frowns, but continues his search. He finds that Aziraphale is not in the living room, or any of his bathrooms, or his study. He’s starting to feel panic creep up his spine, but it is immediately quelled when he steps into his indoor greenhouse and is greeted to the sight of the angel.

Something seizes Crowley’s lungs and squeezes the breath right out of him.

Aziraphale’s back is turned to him, and it’s apparent that he hasn’t noticed Crowley’s appearance. He’s dressed in Crowley’s silk robe, and it’s drooping slightly off his shoulder, revealing a stretch of skin dotted with love bites. His hair is sleep-mussed, curling in every which way, the light from the skylights catching on the white strands, causing them to glow. He loathes clichés, but it’s almost akin to the angel’s halo.

He seems to be taking in the greenery, and even though his back is to Crowley, the demon can still tell Aziraphale’s beaming. His smile could light up a whole room itself, Crowley thinks. He watches as the angel approaches a large monstera plant, its leaves large and fanned out proudly. Aziraphale reaches forward and touches a leaf gently, with reverence.

“I know he’s a little stern with you,” Aziraphale murmurs softly, stroking the leaf. “But I promise you, he does it out of love. He just wants to see you at your best. I might talk to him about taking it a bit easy on you all, though. He might take my advice this go ’round.”

Aziraphale moves his attention to a ficus potted near the wall, standing tall, right to the angel’s chest. And all the same, the angel reaches forward to graze his fingers across the plant’s foliage, with all the love and care one might pay a newborn baby.

“It’s been over a year since we, ah, ‘got together’, as one would call it,” Aziraphale says, sounding sheepish, “and…I’ve never been happier in my existence. I never thought I would get this far. Angel, demon, hereditary enemies, all that. These beliefs were instilled within me since the moment of my creation. I believed them whole-heartedly, with every particle of my being, but…just because I believed in them, doesn’t mean they were necessarily right.

“Sometimes I…I just think about how cruel I was to him,” the angel continues solemnly. “And looking back on it, I was a right b—bastard.” Crowley’s lips curl into an amused smirk. “I still don’t know what he sees in me, honestly. He could have anyone on this planet and yet, he chose me.” His voice drops to a mere whisper. “Is it selfish of me to be glad that he did?”

“No, angel, it’s not.”

Aziraphale gasps and whips around, immediately blushing when he realizes he wasn’t alone during his conversation with the plans. He fiddles with a loose string on the sleeve of the robe nervously, a flustered smile on his face. “H-Hello there, darling, I didn’t know you had awoken yet.”

“Haven’t been awake too long,” Crowley says softly, slowly closing the distance between the two, but keeping a good amount of space between them. He feels it pop into existence suddenly in his closed fist, the cool gems pressing into his palm. “I missed you.”

Aziraphale’s face softens. “Oh, dear, I missed you too. I just wanted to walk around a bit and see your plants. They’re just so lovely, you know.”

_Not as lovely as you_. “They better be, if they know what’s good for them,” Crowley threatens, and the angel rolls his eyes exasperatedly.

There’s a brief silence, and the only thing filling it is the pounding of Crowley’s stupid human heart in his chest, blood roaring in his ears, and adrenaline singing through his veins.

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs. “Do you know why I chose you over everything?”

Aziraphale falters, staring at him owlishly. “I…I don’t, love.”

“Because,” the demon starts, fighting to keep his voice level. “I knew you were different from the other angels the moment I slithered up next to you on that blasted wall in Eden. When you gave away that God-gifted sword to the humans, with no concern for the trouble you’d get yourself in. When you offered me your wing, a shield against the first rain. A simple show of kindness to a demon.” Crowley’s golden gaze drifts to the slate floor. “It was the first kindness anyone had shown to me since I Fell.”

Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath. “Crowley…”

“I sorta clung to it, I guess,” Crowley admits. “And, in turn, I guess I clung to you, too. And the feelings I had, at the Beginning, I hadn’t the words to describe them back then, but when I figured them out…oh, I could have written sonnets about it. Put good ol’ William to shame, I could.” And Aziraphale chuckles at this, face full of mirth, and Crowley shoves on. “And then that whole Antichrist affair happened, and then”—Crowley swallows thickly, his throat tightening—“I thought I lost you in the fire. It was like…like my whole world came crashing down. When I was on my knees in the blaze, my only thought was that I didn’t care if the world ended, because the only person I cared about was gone.”

For someone’s sake, he really make this more depressing than he wanted to. Aziraphale is gaping at him, steely eyes wide and almost watery, and Crowley wants to lurch forward and kiss the threat of tears away. Instead, Crowley firmly plants his feet on the ground and puffs out his chest, locking his eyes on Aziraphale’s.

“So that’s why I’ll do anything in my power to make sure I’ll never lose you again,” he declares. The ring feels like it’s burning hot in his hand, almost like a brand. “And if you say no, if you want things to stay exactly as they are, that’s fine, and we can forget this ever happened. I just…I just need to ask.”

And Crowley shifts, right knee gently falling onto the ground. Then he immediately flinches when every blessed fucking joint in his stupid human body cracks at a ridiculously high volume. It’s not like it matters though, because Aziraphale’s gasp masks the sounds completely.

Quivering, Crowley holds up his arm in offering, the ring pinched between his thumb and index finger. The diamonds are glistening in the light of the greenhouse, almost rivaling the shine in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Principality Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden,” Crowley says. “Will you marry me?”

The silence following the declaration is deafening. One could hear a pin drop, and Crowley is sent into panic mode almost, taking it as a rejection, and then—

Aziraphale rushes over to him and flings himself into Crowley’s arms, effectively knocking them both onto the floor. Crowley still manages to keep a proper grip on the ring, fearing the gem shattering if it clattered to the floor. The angel is smothering himself in the crook of the demon’s neck, and if Crowley isn’t mistaken, he feels the wetness of tears coating his skin.

“Yes, yes, of _course_ I’ll marry you, you silly serpent,” Aziraphale croaks, clinging to Crowley like he’s a lifeline. “And I’m so sorry that I’ve made you think I would ever say no—”

“Hey, hey, angel, easy there,” Crowley soothes, dragging his fingers through the angel’s wily curls. It’s hard trying to calm a fussy angel down when he’s also on the brink of panic, but his heartrate is starting to slow, and his breaths are evening out. “Can I see your left hand, then?”

Sniffling, Aziraphale holds his trembling hand up for Crowley to inspect, and he slides the ring onto Aziraphale’s ring finger, and of course it fits properly, because it has no other choice. Aziraphale gazes upon it in awe, mouth agape, and he whips head back to Crowley. “Sweetheart, where on Earth did you find this?”

“In Palma de Mallorca,” Crowley says, grinning. “When you went to the cathedral. Like it called out to me, almost.”

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale breathes, eyes crinkling with his smile. And then, Crowley finds himself with a lapful of angel, Aziraphale pressing his lips against the demon’s. Crowley sighs into the kiss, snaking his arms around Aziraphale and holding him tightly.

“I love you,” Crowley says against Aziraphale’s lips. “And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“And I love you, too, my darling Crowley.” The angel gets a thoughtful look on his face, then gasps. “Oh!” He holds up his hand and gently tugs the gold ring off his pinky, the sun catching the metal, setting it nearly ablaze. He takes Crowley’s hand and gently slides the ring nice and snug onto Crowley’s finger. The demon’s whole face flushes a brilliant crimson.

“There we are,” Aziraphale says matter-of-factly. “So everyone knows you’re a taken demon.”

“Hgk,” is all Crowley can say.

“Oh, we’re going to be _husbands,_” Aziraphale says wistfully, cupping his face with his hand. He gazes at the ring lovingly, fluttering his fingers. “I’ll get to introduce you as my husband…_have you met my husband, Crowley? Oh, I’m very much taken by my adoring husband, Crowley_—”

“For Heaven’s sake, angel, you’re going to _dissscorporate_ me,” Crowley says, drawing out the sibilants.

“I most certainly think not. We need to tell dear Anathema and Newton! And we’ll have to invite Adam and his friends, and of course Victoria and Beatrice!” The angel pushes himself onto his feet and offers Crowley his hand. “Come now, we should phone them! I’m sure they’ll all be happy to hear it.”

Crowley allows himself to be hauled up by the angel, swallowing his heart at the display of strength. While Aziraphale is tugging him along, a slow smile creeps on Crowley’s face.

He actually did it.

Rejection did not come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as an add-on, here is some lovely fanart of beatrice and victoria from dyslexiccrowley on tumblr! [x](https://chadaziraphale.tumblr.com/post/189945652558/having-a-total-bruh-moment-bc-dyslexiccrowley)
> 
> and here is art of them by me! [x](https://chadaziraphale.tumblr.com/post/189951730578/bad-scribble-of-bea-and-vic)

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: beatrice and victoria are a vampire and a werewolf respectively. maybe they are in this and maybe they aren't
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](https://chadaziraphale.tumblr.com/)


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